by Nina Clare
How could I?
Chapter Four
How well I remember that momentous day. It was the day on which the Lord High Chancellor came for his weekly meeting with Uncle. I was wearing the invisible cloak and waiting in the Chamber of Wise Counsel.
I wandered round the vast room, looking up at the grand portraits lining the walls. Portraits of past kings and queens and high chancellors gazed down at me with expressions of disdain. There were no portraits of my parents in that chamber, but there were two of Father in the Great Gallery and one of Mother in the Public Hall, and their wedding portrait hung in the Great Ballroom. There were so many portraits of Uncle—he was omnipresent throughout the palace. Uncle loved to have his portrait painted. He had commissioned every acclaimed portrait artist in the known kingdoms by that time.
There were miniatures of Uncle on ornamental cabinets; there were small portraits of Uncle in the collections of art grouped in the formal rooms; there were full-length portraits of Uncle at various prominent positions in the palace. Uncle astride a horse in full armour (though he had never been to war). Uncle with a pair of alert deerhounds (though he did not care for dogs). Uncle holding a scroll in one hand and a bejewelled pair of scales in the other to symbolise his great wisdom and justice (though he had neither, in my opinion). Even Uncle painted on the ceiling of the Presence Chamber, floating in midair, surrounded by winged cherubs. And then there were the bronzed busts sitting atop pillars and the carved statues staring out of marbled alcoves.
In the centre of the Chamber of Wise Counsel, at the head of a long, polished table was the throne Uncle had ordered to be made for him. A chair big enough for a giant, high backed and overlaid in gold, with four steps leading up to it. Behind the stately chair, glass-leaded windows gave a glimpse of the orderly avenues of topiary trees stretching away into the formal gardens beyond—framing the throne with a view of perfect symmetry.
I stood, invisible, looking out one window, watching a gardener balancing precariously on a ladder as he clipped a topiary tree into shape. The chamber door opened and I turned to see two young servants come in—two I did not recall seeing before, not that I much noticed the lower servants since they were trained to be as discreet as possible. One, a girl, was a year or two younger than myself, perhaps about fourteen or fifteen years old. She carried a heavy-looking tray to the table and began laying out goblets and decanters.
“Check the chairs are straight and free of dust, Jem,” she said to the boy with her, who looked to be about eleven years old. He sauntered round the table with a dusting cloth and casually patted and dabbed at the chairs. “Be quick, Jem,” the girl said nervously. “They’ll be here any moment.”
“I’ll just give Old Poxy’s throne a dust,” the boy said with a mischievous grin. He jumped up the steps and sat down, leaning back and grasping the bullhead armrests. He pulled a face and said in a lofty voice, “I, King Poxy, am the Superior, Superb, and Supercilious Sunbeam that doth shine gloriously down upon my minions. I do hereby order you, girlie with the tray, to kiss my royal foot!”
“Get down from there, Jem!” The girl looked over her shoulder at the door. “You’ll get us whipped. And what does ‘supercilious’ mean anyhow?”
The boy spat on each of the bullheads and gave them a quick rub with his cloth. “It means proud, when you’ve got no right to be.” He stood halfway up and rubbed his bottom on the seat. “There,” he said. “Polished fit for a pretend king!”
I had to cover my mouth to suppress a shocked laugh.
“Let’s get out of here,” the girl urged as she hurried out with her emptied tray. The boy skipped out behind her, whistling.
The girl was right to hurry, for immediately after they left the chamber the Lord High Chancellor and his secretary were ushered in by a liveried footman. Before the secretary had finished arranging his documents and writing materials on the glossy table, the double doors flew open again and Uncle came striding in.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” greeted the chancellor, bobbing up and down in a strange sort of bow. His secretary seemed to be trying to hide behind him by bowing low and avoiding Uncle’s gaze.
“Chancellor!” boomed Uncle, stomping up the steps and flinging his velvet cape out behind him as he seated his solid frame. He placed his bejewelled hands on the armrests and looked down at the men below. “Keep it brief this morning, man. I’ve a busy day.”
“I will try, Your Grace,” promised the chancellor, bobbing up and down some more as if he could not decide whether to stand or sit. “I will just read off the most urgent matters on my list, shall I?” he blinked rapidly behind the round spectacles perched on his beaklike nose. His secretary passed him a document.
The chancellor adjusted his spectacles and read: “Matters requiring the sagacious attention of the Honourable Temporal King by Crown Proxy.
“Firstly, another seven hundred and twenty-nine appeals this past sennight to the Merciful Monarch by Crown Proxy to request clemency for deliverance from the raise in the Daily Bread Tax on the grounds that there has been no bread again this week.
“Secondly, the second royal merchant fleet returned yesterday from the East. It was a successful venture, and I will have the figures for you by tomorrow evening.
“Thirdly, two further envoys from over the borders arrived this week with requests to present a suit of marriage to your eldest niece.”
I straightened up at this piece of news.
“No mercy granted. No offers of marriage accepted. And get me the figures by sunset today,” boomed Uncle, standing up.
“But . . . but . . . Your Grace . . .” stammered the chancellor, bobbing up and down in a fluster. “That is . . . to say . . . why?”
“Why?” bellowed Uncle.
“Why can no marriage offers be received?”
“Same reason as always,” snapped Uncle, waving his hand from the top step of his throne. “They’re not yet of marriageable age!”
“But, Your Grace,” protested the chancellor, “I have been telling all prospective suitors that for five years now. Your eldest nieces are well beyond the ideal marriageable age!”
“And is there a law that states exactly what the ideal marriageable age is?” roared Uncle, “Is there? Have you and your ministers been drawing up such a law behind my back?”
“No, no . . .” bobbed the chancellor. “There is no such law, but, Your Grace, the people are very restless for a wedding—it is all the kingdom talks of. It would not be prudent, Your Grace, to postpone it any longer!”
His secretary nodded vigorously. “Not be prudent,” he mumbled in agreement.
Uncle glared down at him, “They’re too young, I tell you! Last time I saw them they were still waiting on their front teeth!”
Now, it was quite true Uncle had not shown even the smallest degree of interest in us in a great many years. In fact, my sisters and I had begun to suspect some ago that Uncle was trying to suppress all memory of our existence altogether. Once my eldest sisters had completed their education at the age of sixteen and come of age, Uncle had all our public appearances cancelled. The people of Cataluna had not seen us for the past five years. Our annual progress around the kingdom was halted, our place in the public processions on high feast days was forbidden, and our monthly visits to the almshouses to visit the poor of our city were likewise ended.
“Your Grace,” pleaded the chancellor, “much time has passed . . .”
“Not long enough!” Uncle cut him off and stamped down the stairs of his throne.
“The bride prices would total a vast sum!” beseeched the chancellor.
“I’m already rich!” Uncle retorted as he strode towards the door.
“But, Your Grace—we fear a riot! The people are most unhappy, what with the Bread Tax and the bad harvests, and no royal weddings in twenty years. Things almost could not get any worse!”
“If there’s a riot, send in the army and crush it!” Uncle reached for the doors.
“The army is also very unhappy,” the chancellor said desperately. “There is talk of a rebellion. Did I not mention it in my list?”
Uncle paused with his hand outstretched. “A rebellion? Withhold their provisions! Remove their weaponry!”
“The martial overlords are unhappy too!” squeaked the chancellor.
Uncle’s face was turning a most peculiar colour—a red, grapey kind of colour. He was glaring so fiercely at the two men that they shrank back into a tight knot. The chancellor was visibly trembling. For a moment I thought Uncle was going to charge like a bull across the room and grab the quivering minister. But thankfully, he did not. His hands rested calmly on his crimson silk doublet.
“Well,” he said finally. The grapey colour faded from his face to be replaced by a sneer. “So that’s how it is, is it? If it’s weddings the people want, then weddings they can have.”
“They can?” chorused the two men, their faces brightening.
“On one condition.”
Their faces fell a little.
“They all find suitors at the same time.”
“All twelve?”
“All thirteen.”
I gasped out loud. Fortunately no one heard me, for the chancellor and his secretary had also gasped at the same moment.
“Thirteen betrothals?” stammered the chancellor.
“And I want the full bride price for every one of them in my coffers—in jewels! And they had all better have full royal blood. No half-blooded dukes or viscounts! I’ll give each princess one banquet, and if a match isn’t made that night—the weddings are off—and I want that in writing!”
“That makes four conditions,” said the chancellor weakly. The secretary was frantically scratching away with his quill, recording Uncle’s orders.
Uncle spun on his silver buckled shoe, rapped on the doors for the footmen waiting outside to open them, and stormed out.
“Oh dear,” moaned the chancellor, sinking down into a chair. He waved a thin finger at a decanter, and his secretary hurriedly filled a goblet for him. “Thirteen banquets,” he groaned as he swigged a large mouthful. “Thirteen betrothals,” he moaned again. He drained his goblet and motioned for a refill. “Thirteen brides,” he whimpered into his cup. “And thirteen grooms. This is not going to go down well—not well at all—such asymmetry—such irregularity—and the youngest one—so plain by comparison.”
The chancellor moaned like a worried dove as his secretary finished his writing. Then he got up with a sigh and walked out a little unsteadily, for he was not usually a drinking man. His secretary followed, looking likewise troubled.
I sank down onto a window seat feeling every bit as dismayed as the chancellor. All thirteen betrothed at the same time. Me—married! Me—the misfit, the plain one, the untalented one, the unlucky one without a name. Who would want to marry me?
And, more to the point, who on earth would I ever want to marry?
Chapter Five
Three full moons passed after the declaration went out to all kingdoms, near and far, announcing that thirteen banquets would take place on thirteen consecutive evenings, beginning on the eve of the full moon of midsummer. Invitations were dispatched to every eligible royal bachelor to attend upon the princesses of Cataluna with a view to an alliance by marriage. The prince who won Diamond’s hand would also gain the title of King of Cataluna.
For weeks, royal parties of princes and their retinues trickled into the kingdom. Those first to arrive jostled to fill up the guest wing of the palace; those after them availed themselves of the hospitality of the kingdom’s grandest nobles. Next, the lesser homes of titled men squeezed every last prince they could within their walls. There were even encampments of pavilions erected in the royal meadows. Finally, every inn and lodging house filled up, quite literally, to the beams and rafters. Nothing like it had ever been seen in living memory.
The palace kitchens were such a whirl of activity it made one dizzy to venture in. Tradesmen and suppliers queued across the courtyards, around the walls, and as far as the stables to deliver provisions. There were braying donkeys bearing panniers of goods, mules bearing baskets of turtles, wagons bearing crates of squawking birds, and stout millers bearing sacks of flour from the royal mill.
Extra servants had been brought in, populating every nook and cranny of the kitchens and servants’ wing. They perched on stools and upturned pails as they peeled endless baskets of vegetables, plucked countless birds of every kind, cracked open nuts, shelled peas, and gutted fish. Everywhere I turned there was either great excitement or great fluster.
Every passageway was filled with bustle and hurry and a sense of urgency. Servants of every rank were engaged in preparations for the feasts and balls, or running errands for the demanding would-be bridegrooms lodged in the guest chambers.
Our chambers were no less quiet—my sisters were brimming over with chatter and joyous laughter over the prospects of weddings and dance steps and ribbons and jewellery. I was driven out by the commotion. I was glad for their happiness, but I could not heartily join in.
Every antechamber I attempted to find refuge in was filled with clusters of seamstresses frantically stitching, beading, and trimming. I took no pleasure at the sight of the ball and wedding gowns. It was an unwelcome thought that one of those ruffled, rustling, ribbon-covered mounds of costly silk and embroidery was to be for me.
Finally, the evening came for Diamond’s banquet.
Like a radiant sun, she was surrounded—and partly eclipsed from view—by a cloud of seamstresses making final adjustments to her gown. Maids fussed over fans and gloves and pomanders, the Chief Royal Hairdresser was putting the finishing touches to her magnificent arrangement of braids and loops of glossy, dark hair. And then she was crowned with a delicate circlet of gold.
My sisters fussed likewise, bringing posies and hair combs and jewellery for her to select. Diamond was the queen bee in the heart of the hive.
There came a loud, deliberate rapping at the chamber door. It was the Master of the Banquet, come to escort the guest of honour to her place at the feast. The worker bees flitted to one side, and Diamond emerged.
“Oh, you look divine!” cried Spinel and Almandine, her triplet sisters.
And she did indeed look beautiful, though perhaps somewhat pale from nerves.
“I shall not be able to eat a thing at the feast,” Diamond said breathlessly, putting a slender hand to her stomach. “I have such butterflies!”
“It is only to be expected,” said Beryl, suddenly appearing, as she was wont to do. She took Diamond’s hands and squeezed them. I believe she transferred some courage to Diamond by this gesture, for as she released her hands the colour returned to Diamond’s face and she seemed to grow two inches as she pulled herself up into a more confident and queenly stance.
“I shall remind myself that the probability of the outcome of this evening being positive is highly likely. So what should I fear?” Diamond asserted. She followed this with a deep, calming breath.
“Exactly right,” encouraged Almandine.
“Approach the situation in an orderly and precise manner,” counselled Spinel.
“Try and enjoy yourself, dear,” said Beryl. “This is your own special night. Your mother would have been so proud of you.”
Diamond took another deep breath. “I am ready,” she announced. Two maidservants flew to open wide the chamber doors. The Master of the Banquet waited. Diamond floated gracefully out of the chamber in a cloud of white satin and taffeta, fragranced by the lily-of-the-valley blossoms woven into her hair and pinned to her gown.
After the grand feast in the banquet hall came the dancing. My sisters and I passed through a hidden door to the secret viewing gallery so we could watch from behind a latticed wall.
I enjoyed watching the dancing. Diamond was entrancing, and every eye was upon her. The ballroom was full of eager princes desperate for their turn to dance and converse with her. I almost felt sorry for the noblewomen i
nvited just to make partners enough for the dances, for they were like guttering candles in comparison to the radiant beauty of Diamond. She was whirled around the polished floor in the arms of one besotted partner after another.
By the time I had watched the fourth carola and the fifth rondel, I felt dizzy myself from all the spinning and twirling. I also could not listen another minute to my sisters’ continuous speculation about the princes—who looked the most dashing, who had the handsomest clothes, who danced the most elegantly, who had the best posture, the most attractive hair. And, most important, which of the princes Diamond danced with made the best-looking partner with her.
And so I slipped away.
We were not permitted to show ourselves publically on our sisters’ banquet nights, so I put on the invisible cloak.
I wandered around the edge of the ballroom examining the faces of each prince and listening to their manners of speaking. I counted about sixty in all.
They were all sizes, all shapes, all ages. Some were rather odd-looking, some plain, some good-looking—and more than a dozen were as decidedly handsome as a prince is hoped to be. But I knew with a sinking heart that I could not love any of them. Perhaps I could grow to be fond of some of them, but—love? No. Suddenly I felt very weary. I looked up at the life-size painting hung on the panelled wall above the fireplace—the wedding portrait of my parents, and I wondered about the strange, shadowy mysteries of love and marriage that were hidden from me at that time.
Mother looked as beautiful as Diamond now did, though Mother had fair hair, looped and braided as Diamond’s was, with tiny pearls in her braids like glistening stars. Her face looked kind and gentle, her blue eyes shone with happiness. Father had the dark hair and eyes of Diamond and her triplet sisters; the same dark, glossy curls tumbled down to his broad shoulders, and he had eyes the colour of autumnal chestnuts. He was a handsome man. Of all of the princes now milling around the ballroom, not one of them could compare, in my opinion.
I left with a heavy heart. On my way, I passed Diamond taking a rest from the dancing. She was talking to a tall, fair-haired young man.