The Thirteenth Princess

by Nina Clare

  “And high, pointy hats are what all the noblewomen wear now,” added her assistant. “I heard it from my nephew, who came back with the last merchant ship.”

  “But what is the point of having lovely, long hair if you pluck it out and cover it with a hat?” wondered Celestine as she fingered her golden tresses. Coming from an ordinary woman this comment would have sounded vain, but from Celestine it was perfectly logical, and we all agreed.

  I had a wreath of periwinkles pinned to my head, and then the physical torment finally abated as the hairdressers stepped back to examine the effects of their handiwork.

  I stared dismally into the mirror.

  “The dress is a very nice colour, dear,” said Beryl, appearing at my side in the reflection of the glass. “It matches your eyes.” The dress was a soft dove grey with a hint of periwinkle blue.

  “I look like a grey syllabub,” I whimpered.

  Beryl tutted and my sisters made encouraging remarks, but I knew they were only being kind. I could see the anxious looks between them. I knew what they were all thinking. If I failed to secure a betrothal from the evening there would be no weddings. And my chances of success were not bolstered by the reflection I saw either in the mirror or in my sisters’ worried eyes. I looked far too tall, far too freckly, and far too frilly. One of the periwinkles was already sliding sadly down my hair.

  There was a loud rap at the chamber door.

  They had come for me.

  My slender crown was jammed firmly on my head, and my sisters hurried to the door to wave me out.

  “Oh Beryl, can you not do something to make me pretty?” I pleaded. “There are not many suitors left, and if no one wants me we will all be stuck with Uncle forever!”

  “You are already very pretty, dear,” was all Beryl said. She turned me round and pushed me towards the opened doors where the Master of the Banquet waited in his liveried buxomness to escort me down to the feast.

  “You will have a wonderful time dancing,” promised Emerald.

  Heliodor patted my arm as I passed by.

  My sisters smiled and waved me off, but I could see the fear behind their smiles. If I failed tonight, then all their hopes were dashed.

  “Try and smile, dear,” said Beryl. “It is a ball, not an execution.”

  I cast one last, desperate look at her over my shoulder as I was led away.

  Chapter Twelve

  My entrance to the banquet was a blur. A blur of curtseying noblewomen and politely bowing princes—although not many politely bowing princes, for there were only eleven left.

  I was escorted to the place of honour at the head of the high banqueting table. Uncle was seated under a canopy on a dais, in splendid solitariness. Even with the distance between us, I could tell he was in an inhospitable mood. I had heard that the Royal Physician had been called upon to attend him in the night, and had advised that the cause of his complaints was due to an excess of rich banquet fare. As the meal progressed course by course, I noticed that most of the guests were only halfheartedly filling their platters, and there was much food left uneaten. I recalled that this was the thirteenth great feast they had attended—small wonder they were losing their appetites.

  In the centre of the great table stood the sugar subtleties—sculptures of sugar shaped skillfully into realistic representations of animals. But it was a great pity, I thought, that they should have been carved into the symbols of Uncle’s coat of arms: a fearfully tusked boar and an even more ferocious looking bull with red eyes.

  Uncle’s commission of subtleties was not the only unfortunate contribution he brought to the feast—his stormy appearance on the dais created a heavy atmosphere that lingered like smog throughout the hall. Despite the jollity of the jugglers, the antics of the acrobats, and the gaiety of the musicians who tirelessly worked to entertain us, there was none of the full-bellied laughter and cheer that usually animates feasters by the time they have reached the fourth or fifth course and drunk their fourth or fifth goblet of wine.

  I was glad there was not much conversation happening near me. I so hated banquet chatter. It was exhausting trying to be witty and sparkling and interesting, which is of course how a princess is supposed to be in the presence of guests. Mistress Amblygonite, our conversation and public deportment tutor, had always despaired of me.

  Fortunately, a Catalunan nobleman had been seated to my left. I thought it odd, considering I was there to meet princes, but at least I had no need to impress him as a potential suitor. The prince seated to my right was from a far kingdom whose language was wholly unknown to me. He could speak just a very little of my own tongue, and so we were limited to the very simplest of conversation, there was no call for me to be witty or sparkling there either. I was so relieved that I almost felt warm feelings for Prince Oglio, the portly heir of Ovanosh who was sucking on aniseed comfits even before the feast began. At least, I almost felt something approaching affection—until the soup course was served.

  Prince Oglio drank his soup from his golden bowl in a startlingly similar fashion to how I had seen the sow on the palace farm eating slop from her wooden trough. His slurping and smacking was so repulsive it quite put me off my food, although this was not a true problem because, as Diamond had forewarned me, it was nearly impossible to eat while imprisoned inside a bodice so tightly laced.

  Prince Oglio was certainly not one of the guests whose appetite had been diminished by too much banqueting. Somehow I endured his noisy picking of guinea fowl bones, his chomping of seasoned eels, his deep appreciation of the spiced frumenty, his exuberant munching on almondy figs, and his wiping of saffron-dyed custard from his black, curling moustache and beard. I myself could only manage to nibble on pomegranate seeds and a single gilt sugarplum throughout the entire fourteen courses.

  Finally, the last course was whisked away from the food-and-wine-spattered table. The Master of the Banquet announced the ball to be ready for His Grace, Her Highness, Their Highnesses, and all Honourable Guests, and I was led away into the ballroom on the arm of—the very short, I realised as he stood up from the table—Prince Oglio, for he had claimed the first rondel.

  As we partnered each other in the dance, I noted again how diminutive in height—though not in breadth—Prince Oglio was. He was also wearing the most absurd pair of shoes I had ever seen. The points at the toes of his leather shoes curled up into a huge spiral shape. I was so distracted by his footwear, that I missed the opening bars of the dance and spoilt the whole line.

  Under ordinary circumstances I would have been enjoying myself, for although I am not as graceful a dancer as my sisters, I am—usually—a good dancer, and I do love to dance. But these were not ordinary circumstances. At each dance, a different prince partnered me, but I could not hold a real conversation with any of them due to the differences in our languages. How was it, I wondered, that almost all the remaining suitors were from the farthest kingdoms, whose languages we were not familiar with? It was as if any truly viable prince had been sent away, leaving only those who could not be made to understand they were seeking to pursue the least desirable of the princesses of Cataluna.

  After standing up for six dances I demanded a break for refreshment. I saw the black, curly head of Prince Oglio bobbing down the middle of the ballroom towards me. I could not bear to find out if he drank his refreshment in the manner he drank his soup, and so I stole away through a discreetly placed door hidden behind a giant pot bearing an exotic indoor tree—a gift from the Empress of Ujonda—and slipped out onto the Rose Terrace for some much-needed fresh air.

  I leaned on the marble-topped balustrade and looked out over the formal gardens, which were only faintly visible in the light of the lanterns mounted on the terrace wall. There was no orb to give light, for it was a new moon that night.

  I heard a polite ‘ahem’ and realised someone else was there. I turned to see. It was a man dressed in an outdoor cloak and hood. His face was in shadows, so I could not make out his features, but I k
new I had not met him before. I concluded he must be one of the princes’ attendants.

  “I am sorry if I startled you, my lady,” the man said with a bow, although he remained in the shadows. “Oh, I should say—Your Highness,” he corrected himself when he caught sight of my crown glinting in the light of the lanterns.

  I acknowledged him with a curt nod. I was about to tell him that, as a servant, he ought not to be there at all, but he spoke again.

  “You are not dancing, Your Highness? There is a ball in progress, is there not?”

  “There is. But I needed some air.” I turned away from him. Rather a presumptuous servant, I thought, to address me so directly.

  In the silence, I heard the call of an owl nearby. A second owl answered from across the gardens. I decided I was being somewhat rude. He may only be an attendant, but it would still be the gracious thing for me as a princess to speak politely to someone who was party to a guest in our kingdom.

  “Have you journeyed far with your party?” I asked, turning back towards him.

  “A journey of near six weeks.”

  “That is far indeed. I have never been so far. I have never been outside Cataluna.”

  “Should you like to?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Most ladies find travelling tedious and uncomfortable, I have observed.”

  “I am quite sure I would not. I can well imagine my sisters would find it difficult—no feather beds, no looking glasses and such. Not that they are vain,” I added hastily. “It is just they are used to such things.”

  “And you are not?”

  “Well, I suppose I am, but I would not miss them. I would much rather journey to new places than spend all day dressing for balls.” I could not restrain from grimacing as the cords of my bodice bit into my ribs.

  “A princess who does not like dresses and balls?” said the man with a soft chuckle.

  “I am something of a failure as a princess,” I said ruefully. “I am not even beautiful like my sisters, and a princess has no business not being beautiful.”

  “And who told you that?”

  “It is a fact,” I said with a shrug.

  “I meant, who told you that you are not beautiful?”

  “You should see my sisters in comparison to me. They are all petite and genteel, as a princess ought to be, while I am tall and always wanting to do things rather than be genteel. They are fair and I am freckly, for I hate to be indoors all day and never remember to veil my face from the sun. They play and sing and are clever. I cannot do any such things.”

  I did not know why I was telling this stranger so much. I think the tension of the evening must have made me slightly mad—or more likely I had drunk too much wine on an empty stomach. I felt a little reckless. I almost did not care what I said, it was such a relief to speak the truth after forcing myself to smile and be gracious to my dance partners all evening. And I would never see this manservant again after tonight anyway. The princes and their parties would be leaving on the morrow.

  “I have not seen your sisters, as it happens,” he told me. “My journey here was delayed, and I have just arrived. But not everyone thinks only petite, fair-skinned young ladies who can sing are the only girls who are beautiful.”

  “Everyone I know does.”

  “Look up at those lights,” he said, pointing to the coloured-glass lanterns that festooned the courtyard wall behind us.

  “What of them?”

  “Are they lovely?”

  “Yes. They are.”

  “Now look up at the night sky above them.”

  I looked up.

  “What do you see?”

  “Nothing. A black sky.”

  “Now, turn around and look at the sky over this side, where there is no lantern light.”

  I turned round as directed, and blinked as my eyes adjusted.

  “What do you see now?” he asked.

  “Stars. Lots of stars.”

  “Are they lovely?”

  “Oh yes, beautiful!”

  “But you could not see them with the bright-coloured lantern lights dazzling your eyes, could you?”

  “No.”

  “There you are, then.”

  “I do not understand.” I was puzzled.

  “Just because one kind of light dazzles you and is lovely, it does not mean there are not other kinds of lights which are just as lovely—if not more beautiful. It just takes a different way of seeing things. Sometimes you have to see beauty from a different direction, or it remains invisible.”

  I was still puzzled. Surely he could not be comparing me to the stars? I did not like to be rude, so I said nothing. I remained standing there, aware he had moved much nearer to me and was quite close behind me as we stood gazing up at the constellations. And indeed, the stars truly were vivid and beautiful that clear, moonless, summer night.

  “So where would you go if you were to journey?” he asked.

  “Oh—everywhere! To see tigers in the lands of the east, to see the great rippling sands of the deserts, to see the mountains of ice in the north.”

  “And how would you get there?”

  “By horse and mule. By camel and elephant. By sled and ski and ship.”

  “And how would you find your way?”

  “By sun and starlight, of course!”

  We laughed and continued stargazing, the stars twinkling and glinting as if they were laughing with us.

  Suddenly, Prince Oglio appeared in the courtyard and spied me.

  “Ah—Princess!” he cried out. “I haff been looking effery-where for you—you diz-a-peered! You haff pwomised me ze ’onour of your hand, haff you not?”

  “I promised what?” I asked in alarm.

  “For za next circling dance—you haff pwomised me your hand for ze circling dance!”

  “I did?” I sighed.

  “Yes—yes! Come now! We will circle togezzer, and I pwomise I weel not step on your feets zis time!”

  I glanced down at his feet and marvelled anew at his ridiculous curly shoes. How could anybody dance in such attire?

  “Excuse me,” I said resignedly to the attendant, who had stepped back into the shadows.

  Prince Oglio thrust out his satin-ruffled elbow so I could take his arm.

  “What is your name?” the young man asked as I turned to leave.

  “Princess.”

  “Princess who?”

  “Just . . . Princess,” I called back over my shoulder.

  When I finally escaped again for a rest, I returned to the terrace. I felt a pang of disappointment when I saw that the stranger was no longer there.

  I looked up at the sky. It was later than I realised. Or rather, it was much earlier than I had realised. There was a pale gleam on the horizon signalling the coming dawn. The sky was lightening from black to grey, and the stars were fading back into invisibility.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As soon as I opened my eyes the next morning, a pang of dismay struck me. For I remembered what day it was. It was the day on which all our futures would be determined. And it all rested on me.

  If I had secured a betrothal, then our futures held marriage and a new life beyond the confines of the palace grounds. Our kingdom would have a new king and queen and would be rescued from the brink of violent rebellion.

  But what if I had failed?

  I closed my eyes against the morning sunshine, which thrust painful shafts of light into my tired eyes, for I had not had many hours sleep.

  I did not want to face the day. I dreaded it. I wanted so much to see my sisters rejoice, and certainly I wanted to see our kingdom governed as it ought to be ruled, yet for me there was no hope or joy in the prospect of consigning myself to a loveless marriage to a foreign prince.

  Perhaps I could steal back the invisible cloak and run away . . .

  A foolish thought. There was nothing for it. I had to get up and face whatever the day brought.

  Rose entered my bedchamber, with my breakfas
t. She placed it near me with a little curtsey and began arranging my clothes.

  “Did you enjoy the banquet and the ball, Princess?” she asked shyly as she wrestled with my ball gown, trying to subdue its wayward ruffles and ribbons into order.

  “No.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “But your beautiful dress, your golden crown, the wonderful food—all them handsome princes dancing with you!”

  I gave a big sigh. “Things are not always as they seem,” I said, pulling myself up to reach for my breakfast. I was ravenous, not having eaten the night before. “It may look nice,” I said, lifting a slice of toasted cinnamon bread to my mouth, “but it is not.”

  “Nice? It looks wonderful—glorious! Like the princesses in the stories who go to the ball and find their true love and live happily ever after!” She dropped the frothy ball gown and clasped her hands together ecstatically.

  “Well, real life is not one of those stories,” I said, rubbing my tender ribs.

  “But you enjoyed the dancing?” She bent down to pick something up. “You wore your slippers right through!” She held up my blue-grey satin dancing slippers to show me the holes in their soles.

  “Did you meet a prince you liked?” she asked tentatively.

  I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking what everyone else would be thinking that morning—if I had failed to receive an offer of marriage, then Uncle would remain king. And if he remained king, there would be riots all over the kingdom.

  “I could barely understand most of them,” I said glumly. “I certainly do not want to marry any of them.”

  Suddenly, I was no longer hungry. I threw the half-eaten cinnamon bread back on the platter. I decided I had better get dressed so I would be ready to go down and discover our fate.

  I sighed as I washed my hands and face in the basin. I noticed the water was warm and scented with orange-blossom oil. I sighed as I stepped into my gown. As Rose fastened the cords for me, I noticed that a little rip in the sleeve I had made had been neatly stitched back up. I sighed as I sat letting Rose brush my hair and plait it into a long braid. I noticed she never pulled on my hair like the hairdressers had, but brushed it carefully, so that it actually felt quite pleasant. But still I sighed again.