“I wasn’t planning on going to either,” Amilia stated.
The mere idea of noblemen chasing her was beyond frightening. While courtly love might be honorable and romantic for princesses and countesses, no noble ever practiced gentleness with a common woman. Serving girls who caught the eye of any noble—whether a knight or a king—could be taken against their will. Amilia had never been attacked, but she had wiped tears and bound wounds for more friends than she cared to count. Although she now possessed the title of lady before her name, everyone knew her background, and Amilia feared her flimsy title would be a poor shield against a lust-driven noble.
“Nonsense, you must attend the feasts. Besides, it’s your duty. Your absence could very well start a riot! You don’t want to be the cause of an insurrection in the weeks leading to your empress’s wedding, do you?”
“Ah, no, of course—”
“Good, so it’s all settled. Now you just need to pick someone. Do you have a favorite?”
“I don’t know any of them.”
“None? Good gracious, darling! Do they keep you a prisoner? What about Sir Elgar or Sir Murthas? Prince Rudolf is competing, and he is a fine choice with an excellent future. Of course, there is also Sir Breckton. You couldn’t find a better choice than that. I know he does have the reputation of being a bit stuffy. It is true, of course. But after his victory in Melengar, he’s the hero of the hour—and quite dashing.” The duchess wiggled her eyebrows. “Yes, Breckton would be a perfect choice. Why, the ladies of several courts have been fawning over him for years.”
A look of concern crossed Lady Genevieve’s face. “Hmm… that does bring up a good point. You’ll probably need to be careful. While you are certainly the object of every knight’s affections, that means you’re also the target of every lady’s jealousy.”
The duchess threw a meaty arm around Amilia’s neck and pulled her close, as if she were going to whisper in her ear, but her voice did not drop a bit in volume. “Trust me, these women are dangerous. Courtly love isn’t a game to them. You’re new to politics, so I am telling you this for your own good. These are daughters of kings, dukes, and earls, and they are used to getting what they want. When they don’t, they can be vengeful. They know all about your background. I am certain that many have sent spies to visit your family, trying to dig up any dirt they can. If they can’t find any, trust me, they will invent some.”
Lady Genevieve tugged her around another corner, this time toward the northern postern and up the steps to the third floor.
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“It’s quite simple, my dear. On the one hand, they think belittling you should be easy because of your common roots. But, on the other, you’ve never made any pretense of being otherwise, which negates their effort. It’s difficult to demean someone for something they’re not embarrassed of, now isn’t it? Still, you must turn a deaf ear to any jibes told at your expense. You may hear name-calling, like swine herder and such. Which, of course, you’re not. You must remember you’re the daughter of a carriage maker and a fine one at that. Why, absolutely everyone who is anyone is beating a path to your father’s door. They all want to ride in a coach crafted by the father of the Chosen One of Maribor.”
“You know about my father? My family? Are they all right?” Amilia stopped so suddenly that the duchess walked four steps before realizing she had lost her.
Amilia had long feared her family was dead from starvation or illness. They had had so little. She had left home two years earlier to remove an extra mouth from the table, with the intent of sending money home, but she had not counted on Edith Mon.
The head maid had declared Amilia’s old clothes unfit and demanded she pay for new ones. This forced Amilia to borrow against her salary. Broken or chipped plates also added to her bill, and in the first few months, there were many. With Edith, there was always something to keep Amilia penniless. Eventually the head maid even began fining her for disobedience or misbehavior, keeping Amilia in constant debt.
How she had hated Edith. The old ogre had been so cruel that there had been nights when Amilia had gone to sleep wishing the woman would die. She fantasized that a carriage would hit her or that she would choke on a bone. Now that Edith was gone, she almost regretted those thoughts. Charged with treason, Edith had been executed less than a week earlier, with all the palace staff required to watch.
In more than two years, Amilia had been unable to save even a single copper to send home and had heard nothing from her family. While the empress had been trapped in her catatonic daze, the regents had sequestered the palace staff to prevent others from learning about her condition. During that time, Amilia had been as much a prisoner as Modina. Writing letters home had been useless. The palace rumor mill maintained that all letters were burned by order of the regents. After Modina recovered, Amilia continued to write, but she never received a single reply. There had been reports of an epidemic near her home, and she feared her family was dead. Amilia had given up all hope of ever seeing them again—until now.
“Of course they’re all right, darling. They are more than all right. Your family is the toast of Tarin Vale. From the moment the empress spoke your name during her speech on the balcony, people have flocked to the hamlet to kiss the hand of the woman who bore you and to beg words of wisdom from the man who raised you.”
As they reached the third-floor guest chambers, Amilia’s eyes began to water. “Tell me about them. Please. I must know.”
“Well, let’s see. Your father expanded his workshop, and it now takes up an entire block. He’s received hundreds of orders from all over Avryn. Artisans from as far away as Ghent beg for the chance to work as his apprentices, and he’s hired dozens. The townsfolk have elected him to city council. There is even talk of making him mayor come spring.”
“And my mother?” Amilia asked with a quivering lip. “How is she?”
“She’s just marvelous, darling. Your father bought the grandest house in town and filled it with servants, leaving her plenty of time for leisure. She started a modest salon for the local artisan women. They mostly eat cake and gossip. Even your brothers are prospering. They supervise your father’s workers and have their pick of the women for wives. So you see, my dear, I think it is safe to say your family is doing very well indeed.”
Tears ran down Amilia’s face.
“Oh, darling! What is wrong? Wentworth!” she called out as they reached her quarters. A dozen servants paused in their tasks to look up. “Give me your handkerchief, and get a glass of water immediately!”
The duchess directed Amilia to sit on a settee, and Genevieve dabbed the girl’s tears away with surprising delicacy.
“I’m sorry,” Amilia said softly. “I just—”
“Nonsense! I’m the one who should apologize. I had no idea such news would upset you.” She spoke in a soft motherly voice. Then, turning in the direction the servant had gone, the duchess roared, “Where’s that water!”
“I’m all right—really,” Amilia assured her. “I just haven’t seen my family in so long and I was afraid…”
Lady Genevieve smiled and embraced Amilia. The duchess whispered in her ear, “Dear, I’ve heard it said that people come from far and wide to ask your family how you saved the empress. Their reported response is that they know nothing about that, but what they can say with complete certainty is that you saved them.”
Amilia shook with emotion at the words.
Lady Genevieve picked up the handkerchief. “Where’s that water!” she bellowed once more. When it arrived, the duchess thrust the cool glass into Amilia’s hands. She drank while the big woman brushed back her hair.
“There now, that’s better,” Lady Genevieve purred.
“Thank you.”
“Not at all, darling. Do you feel up to finding out why I brought you here?”
“Yes, I think so.”
They were in the duchess’s formal reception area, part of the four-room suit
e that Lady Genevieve had redecorated, transforming the dull stone shell into a warm, rich parlor. Thick woolen drapes of red and gold covered every inch of wall. Facades made the arrow slits appear large and opulent. An intricately carved cherry mantel fronted the previously bare stone fireplace. Layers of carpets covered the entire room, making the floor soft and cozy. Not a stick of the original furniture remained. Everything was new and lovelier than anything Amilia had ever seen before.
A dozen servants, all dressed in reds and golds, returned to work. One individual, however, stood out. He was a tall, well-tailored man in a delightful outfit of silver and gold brocade. On his head he wore a whimsical, yet elegant, hat that displayed a long, billowing plume.
“Viscount,” the duchess called, waving the man over. “Amilia, darling, I want you to meet Viscount Albert Winslow.”
“Enchanted indeed.” He removed his hat and swept it elaborately in a reverent bow.
“Albert is perhaps the foremost expert on organizing grand events. I hired him to mastermind my Summersrule Festival, and it was utterly amazing. I tell you, the man is a genius.”
“You are far too kind, my lady,” Winslow said softly with a warm smile.
“How you managed to fill the moat with leaping dolphins is beyond me. And the streamers that filled the sky—why, I’ve never seen such a thing. It was pure magic!”
“I’m pleased to have pleased you, my lady.”
“Amilia, you simply must use Albert. Don’t worry about the cost. I insist on paying for his services.”
“Nonsense, good ladies. I couldn’t conceive of taking payment for such a noble and worthwhile endeavor. My time is yours, and I’ll do whatever I can out of devotion to you both and, of course, for Her Eminence.”
“There now!” Lady Genevieve exclaimed. “The man is as chivalrous as a paladin. You must take him up on his offer, darling!”
They both stared at Amilia until she found herself nodding.
“I am delighted to be of service, my lady. When can I meet with your staff?”
“Ah…” Amilia hesitated. “There’s only me and Nimbus. Oh, Nimbus! I’m sorry but I was on my way to meet with him when you—I mean—when we met. I’m supposed to be selecting entertainment for the feasts and I’m terribly late.”
“Well, you should hurry off, then,” Lady Genevieve said. “Take Albert with you. He can begin there. Now run along. There is no need to thank me, my dear. Your success will be my reward.”
Amilia noticed that Viscount Winslow was less formal when away from the duchess. He greeted each performer warmly, and those not selected were dismissed with respect and good humor. He knew exactly what was required, and the auditions proceeded quickly under his guidance. All told, they selected twenty acts: one for each of the pre-wedding feasts, three for the Eve’s Eve banquet, and five for the wedding reception. The viscount even picked four more, just in case of illness or injury.
Amilia was grateful for the viscount’s help. As much as she had grown to rely on Nimbus, he had no experience with event planning. Originally, the courtier had been hired as the empress’s tutor, but it had been quite some time since he had educated Modina on poise or protocol. Such skills were not required, as Modina never left her room. Instead, Nimbus became the secretary to the secretary, Amilia’s right hand. He knew how to get things done in a royal court, whereas Amilia had no clue.
From his years of service to the nobles in Rhenydd, Nimbus had mastered the subtle language of manipulation. He tried to explain the nuances of this skill to Amilia, but she was a poor student. From time to time he corrected her for doing foolish things, such as bowing to the chamberlain, thanking a steward, or standing in the presence of others, which forced them to remain on their feet. Almost every success she had in the palace was because of Nimbus’s coaching. A more ambitious man would resent her taking the credit, but Nimbus always offered his counsel in a kind and helpful manner.
Sometimes when Amilia caught herself doing something particularly stupid, or when she blushed from embarrassment, she noticed Nimbus spilling something on himself or tripping on a carpet. Once he even fell halfway down a flight of stairs. For a long while, Amilia thought he was extremely clumsy, but recently she had begun to suspect Nimbus might be the most agile person she had ever met.
The hour was late and Amilia hurried toward the empress’s chamber. Gone were the days when she spent nearly every minute in Modina’s company. Her responsibilities kept her busy, but she never retired without checking in on the empress, who was still her closest friend.
Rounding a corner, she bumped headlong into a man.
“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, feeling more than a little foolish for walking with her head down.
“Oh no, my lady,” the man replied. “It is I who must apologize for standing as a roadblock. Please, forgive me.”
Amilia did not recognize him, but there were many new faces at the palace these days. He was tall and stood straight with his shoulders squared. His face was closely shaved and his hair neatly trimmed. By his bearing and clothing, she could tell he was a noble. He was dressed well, but unlike those of many of the Wintertide guests, his outfit was subdued.
“It’s just that I am a bit confused,” he said, looking around.
“Are you lost?” she asked.
He nodded. “I know my way in forests and fields. I can pinpoint my whereabouts by the use of moon and stars, but for the life of me, I am a total imbecile when trapped within walls of stone.”
“That’s okay, I used to get lost in here all the time. Where are you going?”
“I’ve been staying in the knights’ wing at my lord’s request, but I stepped outside for a walk and can’t find my way back to my quarters.”
“You’re a soldier, then?”
“Yes, forgive me. My stupidity is without end.” He stepped back and bowed formally. “Sir Breckton of Chadwick, son of Lord Belstrad, at your service, my lady.”
“Oh! You’re Sir Breckton?”
Appearances never impressed Amilia, but Breckton was perfect. He was exactly what she expected a knight should be: handsome, refined, strong, and—just as Lady Genevieve had described—dashing. For the first time since coming to the palace, she wished she were pretty.
“Indeed, I am. You’ve heard of me, then… For good or ill?”
“Good, most certainly. Why, just—” She stopped herself and felt her face blush.
Concern furrowed his brow. “Have I done something to make you uncomfortable? I am terribly sorry if I—”
“No, no, not at all. I’m just being silly. To be honest, I never heard of you until today, and then…”
“Then?”
“It’s embarrassing,” she admitted, feeling even more flustered by his attention.
The knight’s expression turned serious. “My lady, if someone has dishonored me, or harmed you through the use of my name—”
“Oh no! Nothing as terrible as all that. It was the Duchess of Rochelle, and she said…”
“Yes?”
Amilia cringed. “She said I should ask you to carry my favor in the joust.”
“Oh, I see.” He looked relieved. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I am not—”
“I know. I know,” she interrupted, preferring not to hear the words. “I would have told her so myself if she ever stopped talking—the woman is a whirlwind. The idea of a knight—any knight—carrying my favor is absurd.”
Sir Breckton appeared puzzled. “Why is that?”
“Look at me!” She took a step back so he could get a full view. “I’m not pretty, and as we both now know, I’m the opposite of graceful. I’m not of noble blood, having been born a poor carriage maker’s daughter. I don’t think I could hope for the huntsman’s dog to sit beside me at the feast, much less have a renowned knight such as yourself riding on my behalf.”
Breckton’s eyebrows rose abruptly. “Carriage maker’s daughter? You are her? Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale?”
“Oh y
es, I’m sorry.” She placed her hand to her forehead and rolled her eyes. “See? I have all the etiquette of a mule. Yes, I am Amilia.”
Breckton studied her for a long moment. At last he spoke. “You’re the maid who saved the empress?”
“Disappointing, I know.” She waited for him to laugh and insist she could not possibly be the Chosen One of Maribor. While Modina’s public declaration had helped protect Amilia, it had also made her uncomfortable. For a girl who had spent her whole life trying to hide from attention, being famous was difficult. Worse yet, she was a fraud. The story about a divine intervention selecting her to save the empress was a lie, a political fabrication—Saldur’s way of manipulating the situation to his advantage.
To her surprise, the knight did not laugh. He merely asked, “And you think no knight will carry your favor because you are of common blood?”
“Well, that and about a dozen other reasons. I hear the whispers sometimes.”
Sir Breckton dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Please, Lady Amilia, I beseech you. Give me the honor of carrying your token into the joust.”
She just stood there.
The knight looked up. “I’ve offended you, haven’t I? I am too bold! Forgive my impudence. I had no intention to participate in the joust, as I deem such contests the unnecessary endangerment of good men’s lives for vanity and foolish entertainment. Now, however, after meeting you, I realize I must compete, for more is at stake. The honor of any lady should be defended and you are no ordinary lady, but rather the Chosen One of Maribor. For you, I would slay a thousand men to bring justice to those blackguards who would soil your good name! My sword and lance are yours, dear lady, if you will but grant me your favor.”
Dumbstruck, Amilia did not realize she had agreed until after walking away. She was numb and could not stop smiling for the rest of her trip up the stairs.
Heir of Novron Page 4