Chapter Nine
The announcement, when finally made, went off like a charm. But it took careful preparation.
In the first step of the dance (distinctly a minuet, rather than a gavotte or a pavane), Mortmain casually mentioned to the castle’s chamberlain that the Crown Prince had given thought to consulting the King and Queen on a minor point of no great urgency, but was uncertain as to local custom; what did the chamberlain think best—to wait one month or two before making a formal request for an audience? The chamberlain replied obliquely, stating that such procedural traditions as Bellemontagne favored were more in the nature of potato patches than lofty oaks, try as he might to make them otherwise… but that even so, King Antoine and Queen Hélène were too busy with issues of state to be concerned with something the Crown Prince considered minor. Both men retired from the exchange delighted: in any profession, encountering true skill is a rarity.
On the next day—meeting by apparent accident in the very same place, at the very same time—Mortmain allowed that in terms of reflecting his master’s thoughts he had been tragically in error; that in fact the matter in question was only minor from certain angles, and quite intractable without benefit of their highnesses’ wisdom, experience, and most gracious understanding, which the Crown Prince hoped they might be willing to share at their earliest convenience. Mortmain further hoped that the King and Queen would comprehend that delicate issues of a personal nature were involved, suggesting the need for privacy. The chamberlain patiently listened to this volley, but made no show of being moved. Instead he expressed sincere and heartfelt concern for the Crown Prince’s health, state of mind, and general well-being—which, him being a royal guest, was obviously of grave concern to the entire nation—followed by the regretful observation that while things might be different in urbane Corvinia, the peasant gossips in Bellemontagne made confidentiality next to impossible. Why, speaking to the King and Queen in private was nearly as good as shouting from a church tower, most days. Perhaps the Prince should consider taking his problem, whatever it might be, to a wise woman or a priest?
As they parted company this time, the chamberlain couldn’t help but giggle; while Mortmain, smiling slyly, thought to himself, We really must play chess.
On the third day both men knew better than to stroll by that corner again, or speak together at all. A seed, once planted, must ripen, and no one ever managed a minuet by getting ahead of the beat.
On the fourth day they nodded to one another.
On the fifth day they smiled and formally, if invisibly, changed places. The chamberlain politely inquired as to Mortmain’s health, asked him if the castle’s ostlers were properly seeing to the Crown Prince’s modest needs in the stables, commiserated over the Spartan difficulties of life in service, then mentioned that Tuesday next all of Bellemontagne would be celebrating the Feast of Saint Amalberga—not Saint Amalberga of Munsterbilzen, he hastened to add, but Amalberga of Maubeuge, the one not generally pictured as standing on top of King Charles Martel. Fortunately for the valet and his master, the chamberlain said, one of the features of the event was a ceremony in which the King and the Queen would be available for a public audience, should the Crown Prince still be desirous of conversation. After which there would be cake, he added, showing real pleasure for the first time in Mortmain’s experience.
In terms of the hidden conversation they had been having these past five days, this gambit was so balanced, so wonderfully delivered, so absolutely exquisite in the way it landed the quoit while upping the stakes, that good manners compelled Mortmain to let the chamberlain preen for a moment. Then he ruefully (and falsely) admitted that the Crown Prince never celebrated the feast of any saint, on grounds that such gaiety was inappropriate. To honor a martyr took suffering, not celebration: at these times the Prince preferred standing for hours in the middle of a freezing river, or hurling himself off low walls onto a pile of stones. It depended on the season.
Mortmain took his leave, whistling cheerfully down the hall. The chamberlain looked after, thinking, Sod me, but there goes a master. Tomorrow the first formal letter will be peeking out of his coat pocket. I must think of the best way not to accept it. Then he rushed to tell the King and Queen the good news. For it was as inevitable as dawn now, to anyone familiar with the proper running of a kingdom: Prince Reginald meant to propose.
And by the day before the Feast of Saint Amalberga—the Amalberga who was the mother of Saints Emembertus, Gudila, and Reinalda, not the Amalberga who miraculously cured Charlemagne even after he broke her arm—everyone in Bellemontagne knew it. Which was precisely the result Mortmain had sought.
Upended. That was the word: Cerise felt upended. Also uprooted, in an uproar, put upon, barely upright, and caught utterly in upheaval. Her emotions splashed through the treasured words in her head the same way she had splashed through puddles as a child, with the same gleefully muddy results. If her tablet and stylus were with her, she could try to contain her feelings within a parchment cage; perhaps then this roaring vertigo might pass. But she didn’t dare bring her writing tools into the castle, and she couldn’t possibly slip out this afternoon or even tonight, to try and scritch away her nervousness by lantern light. Not with everything that had to be readied for the feast, and all the castle staff busy straight through moonset and sunrise at their tasks. There was nothing for her to do but sit in her room as quietly as she could, the very portrait of grace and serenity, while her unanchored mind hammered at the walls.
Her mother had been insufferable for days, of course. No doubts there, no trembling uncertainties, no panicky midnight questions. Her earlier advice and guidance had been proven correct—which was only sensible, really, don’t you see?—and now she dismissed her daughter’s concerns.
Yes, dear. We’ve all gone through this. Just before my own formal betrothal I was an absolute wreck, as you are now—and as your own daughter shall someday be, if you are blessed with one. There’s just something upsetting about getting what we want. I suggest knitting.
It hadn’t helped.
Cerise thought, I am frightened, and in the wake of that admission felt strangely calm, the way an invalid finds relief at the flattened peak of a fever. She couldn’t remember ever feeling frightened before: not even when she’d first gone to her mother, weeks before, seeking help.
That had been self-doubt and frustration and anger, not fear.
On that sun-blessed morning she had found her mother and father together in the Royal Gardens, directing some servants in a fervent campaign against a colony of particularly entrenched aphids. Based on the King’s evident agitation, she might have assumed the insects were wearing armor and had stormed the castle, swinging battering rams, to take his Rosa damascena hostage.
“We can’t talk now, my dear,” the King had said to her. “Busy. Quite.”
“I only need to speak with Mother. Please, it’s important.”
Thathad gotten his attention. Little seizes a royal mind like being set to one side. “If this is about the warrior-bunny,” he’d said, frowning, “there is nothing to talk about.”
“You’re not being fair. You don’t even know him!”
“I know he’s King Krije’s son, and that’s more than enough for me. I’ve no ill will toward the boy, Cerise, no hard feelings at all, but his sire is a murderous old monster, and I don’t trust his intentions one bit! Do you hear me?”
“She hears you,” Queen Hélène spoke from behind him. “So do I. So does half the castle. Go away, Antoine, you’re upsetting our daughter.” When he hesitated, the Queen stamped her foot. “Go on—go pass an edict or bother the cook, but go now. And you,” she said to the gardeners, “you keep working. I will be watching.”
The King left, briefly annoyed at his wife’s dismissal but delighted not to participate in what he’d always thought of as “that sort” of conversation. While he loved his daughter dearly, he was also keenly aware of the spheres of his capability. “Some of us are born to ride and rule,” he said to the chamberlain, “to lead men and—and, yes, pass edicts. Others are born to take tea and counsel young lovers. I think it’s fairly obvious which sort I am.” The chamberlain, who had his own opinion regarding his monarch’s destiny, had not become chamberlain by expressing it.
Queen Hélène passed Cerise a fragile lacy handkerchief and, taking her left elbow in hand, began to steer her gently toward the Royal Gardens’ prettiest arbor. “There—blow your nose, and don’t even think of crying.”
“I’m not crying.” The suggestion annoyed Cerise, in part because she knew how close she was and hated that her mother could sense it.
“I didn’t say you were,” the Queen answered with surprising mildness. “Now blow your nose.” She stroked Cerise’s hair, waiting patiently while the Princess did so. Finally she said, “Darling, your father is not your problem. I’ll deal with your father. The problem is the Crown Prince, yes? Tell me I’m wrong.”
Princess Cerise sniffled. “Mother, I know he likes me. We’ve walked everywhere there is to walk in this castle, and in the woods, and I’ve held his arm while he told me all his adventures, and all about life at King Krije’s court, and what ladies are wearing there. And he’s recited poetry to me, hours and hours of it—he knows lots of poetry—and we’ve ridden together, and he has been just as sweet and… and chivalrous as he could be—”
“But no further than that,” said Queen Hélène. “That’s where it ends.”
Cerise nodded miserably. “And now I hardly see him at all. He’s off each day with his valet, doing something he won’t talk about.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Her mother took some internal measure Cerise could only guess at, then continued. “Well. To the heart of things. Let me tell you what I know. Your Reginald cannot be entirely direct with you, my dear, because he is a man, and men believe themselves to be all straight lines and right angles—an illusion you will find it important to allow them, though in fact they are as hopelessly snarled as a ball of yarn after a cat gets through playing with it. Part of their charm, my own mother always said, and I have lived to think her wise. Furthermore, your Reginald is a prince, which adds its own annoying tangles to the concatenation.”
“I’ve known lots of princes now, Mother. And if I’d given a sign, any one of them would have proposed on the spot. Just not him.”
“Don’t interrupt, Cerise. Reginald isn’t just any prince, he’s a Crown Prince. More to the point, he is Crown Prince of Corvinia. You must remember, dear, Reginald’s going to be king after Krije dies, if the dreadful man ever actually does. And he’s going to rule over a much larger, much wealthier, much more important land than our little Bellemontagne. While I believe you worthy of him, and—unlike your father—see great opportunity for benefit in such an arrangement, if carefully made, it is not something to be committed to on impulse. Consider the matter from a higher vantage point, as it deserves. Compared to Corvinia, we are a backwater, a bump in the road. And naturally Reginald has no idea whether you’re capable of being the sort of companion he will need when he ascends the throne. So he spends time with you, and studies you, and then goes off to hold counsel with a man who is obviously here with him at King Krije’s specific direction, no doubt the vicious old raptor’s designated eyes and ears. And this consideration is only as it should be. Here, in your home, you are still a beautiful child, your potential untested; there, you would have as great a responsibility as he. Greater, if you ask me.”
“Mother, I know I could be what he needs!” Princess Cerise cried out, passionately clasping her hands at her breast. “I just know I could.”
“Could you? He will rule the land, but you will have to rule the castle—which is twice the task, believe me, for a country largely governs itself. Castles don’t. You will have to be a royal hostess, managing more noble guests in a week than your father and I see in a year’s time. You will be overseeing kitchens bigger than our Great Hall—you will supervise servants who outnumber our local population—you will be hounded endlessly, morning and night, by maddening hordes of people begging you to intercede with your husband on their behalf. And on top of that, Reginald will be expecting you to be his partner, his trusted adviser”—she paused for a significant moment—“his playmate, his lover, the mother of his children… all that, at all times, at a moment’s notice. Are you prepared for such a life, my Cerise? My little girl?”
“Yes, Mother,” the Princess answered quietly. “Yes, I am sure I am. But how can I convince him now, when I don’t even see him? How can I make him realize who I really am?”
Queen Hélène studied her daughter for a long moment, and then reached out to take her into her arms. “We will simply have to show the Prince that he cannot live without you. Good works, charity, taking soup to ailing servants, that sort of thing. Don’t worry about it anymore, dear—he’ll come around. I had to do the same with your father. You just have to make them understand. They never do on their own.”
Thus counseled, if not terribly comforted, Cerise had returned to waiting for her prince of choice to make up his mind. She filled her hours with every action that her mother prescribed, plus a few good ones she conceived for herself, and she even stopped watching from the main battlement to see what time Prince Reginald returned from whatever he was doing. After a week she started taking her meals alone in her rooms, so she would not accidentally have to speak with the Prince in company.
But none of that had made her feel any better. To her own surprise and her mother’s unreserved irritation, each generous act of giving, each moment of self-abnegation and sacrifice, actually made her feel worse. This wasn’t what she wanted at all. She wanted him, and she wanted him now. Let other princesses play these ridiculous games. Behind the mask of her features, she was screaming to take Reginald by his elegant silk sleeves and shout, Don’t you know I’m yours? until he simply had to say Since before I was born, yes.
Which is why she was particularly shocked to discover, on the day that the chamberlain entered with written proof of Prince Reginald’s intentions, that the elegantly turned-out letter in his hands did not make her feel any better, either.
Patience and Rosamonde stared up into the vast, dark green reaches of the old oak. There was no visible sign of the five dragonlets, though the sisters could hear scrabbling claws and flapping wings at play somewhere out of sight in the tree’s upper branches.
“They won’t come down,” Patience complained to Robert. He was stretched out on the ground on the other side of the tree trunk, hands laced over his eyes, trying to nap.
“I wouldn’t come down either, if I knew the two of you didn’t have any treats for me.”
“Told you so,” Rosamonde hissed at Patience.
“How could they know, all the way up there?”
Robert laughed gently and sat up. “They know. So open those fists, grab your skirts, and go bring me as many hazelnuts as you can gather. Do that and we’ll play some roast and catch.”
He rose to his feet as the two girls ran off, shouting and laughing at each other, then he stretched with all the rapturous luxury of Reynald or Fernand at their most self-indulgent. Last night his mother Odelette hadn’t been able to talk about anything but the marriage rumors, and this morning he’d overheard Elfrieda tell Ostvald that she was making a new dress for the feast, to honor the Princess and Prince at the evening’s festivities. Which meant that the Royal Ceremony before the feast really was going to be it, and about time, too. After that, just one more task for that crafty valet of the Princeling’s, and Robert’s new life could finally begin.
He grinned a crooked grin and rubbed his neck, working a cramped muscle there. Then he whistled for the dragonlets to come down and join him. Tomorrow… tomorrow was going to be a wonderful day.
The greatest philosopher in Corvinia’s history, Bernard of Trèves—who was not actually from Corvinia, but passed through it once on his way from Avignon to Prague, and left a deep impression on the general populace—wrote in his De Facetia Divina that nothing on Earth was what it seemed. It therefore followed, he continued, that to value substance over appearance was to mock God’s obvious preference for His world. As with many of Bernard’s observations, no one could say whether he was serious or joking, which in some ways underscored the point. Crown Prince Reginald grew up surrounded by such quotes and listened better than anyone knew. His own personal interpretation of Bernard’s maxim had become both a defense against his father and the guiding rule of his life: When in doubt, smile.
But he wasn’t smiling now, in any part of him. Not with every voice in the Great Hall stilled, and every eye focused solely on him, as he stepped forward in order to kneel before the King and Queen.
He knew the sharp prodding of Mortmain’s stare best of all, having endured years of it. If he had to, he thought, he could point straight at the man without even looking—wouldn’t that surprise him!—then shout, This was his idea! He wrote the letters, he even wrote my speech! I just wanted to ride away in the middle of the night, but he wouldn’t let me!
Instead Crown Prince Reginald bowed to King Antoine and Queen Hélène with all the gravity that came with his storied ancestry, and settled to one knee in a descent as sure and graceful as a sunset. The dark cloth of his best jerkin and cape fell around him like evening clouds over the sea.
He lowered his eyes, grateful that he could do the beginning part without having to look at anyone. Get through this, that’s all.
“Majesty—ah—Majesties. For all your kind and gracious forbearance, it can hardly have escaped your notice that I am but an uncouth, unlettered prince from a poor kingdom, so far below your beautiful Bellemontagne in the world’s esteem as to be all but invisible.”
It was a good start. Patently false, of course, and everyone present knew it, but they felt complimented all the same.
“That one such as I should dare lift his eyes to the vision of feminine grace that is your daughter, Her Highness the Princess Cerise—it is not to be tolerated, and strikes even this vulgar crowned peasant as absurdity piled on grotesquerie. Truly, I can hardly believe that these are my own words as I speak, or that this is my own voice, and I feel I must make petition for your pardon before speaking any further. Your daughter is of marriageable age, as am I, and we are both unbetrothed—”
He paused, and in the echoing space that opened, he could hear a brief, sharp intake of breath from everyone in the room, the Princess’s own perhaps an instant ahead of all the others.
He raised his head, his blue eyes moving slowly from the Princess to the Queen, then finally to the King. Their gazes locked, and Reginald waited for what seemed an eternity before King Antoine lowered his chin in a nod so subtle that only Reginald could see it.
Thus cued, the Prince continued.
“But I am not here this afternoon to sue for her hand.”
For three heartbeats the Great Hall was lost in pandemonium, much of it stemming from the rejoicing whoops of the last remaining visitor princes, who had spent the day glumly packing for a humiliating homeward journey. Then King Antoine lifted his hand sharply, gesturing for silence.
“We would hear what our guest has to say, and we would hear it without interruption. Be silent!” When all voices were finally stilled, he continued. “You tell us now, Prince Reginald, that you have not come here to wed our daughter, Princess Cerise. Yet we were given to understand otherwise. You will explain yourself, or face our displeasure.”
Here’s the tricky part now. Mustn’t get it wrong. What did he say to say? Ah, yes…
“Your Majesty, I did not come to your country seeking treasure of any kind, least of all such living treasure as your daughter, the most beautiful flower of this extraordinary kingdom. Indeed, I did not come here of my own will at all, though I now bless the stars that charted my path. But he may not wed who is not at liberty to do so… and I will not be free until I have satisfied the obligations set upon me by my father, King Krije, monarch of Corvinia.”
“Then you do wish to marry the Princess?”
“With all my heart. But I cannot.”
By now, most of those watching understood that the Prince’s confession was no surprise to the royal family, but rather some kind of prearranged ritual, and wonderful theater to boot. They barely breathed, hanging on every word and gesture of the display, thrilled to the marrow—even the rejected princes—to be there.
“And if you were free? If the obligation that binds you were removed?”
“Then I would come to you as the beggar that I am and make offering—my life and my future lands, my circlet and my future crown, everything that I own and am, and all that I may yet be, for your daughter’s hand. But between now and that day there is a shadow, for it is the custom of my people and the command of my father that I prove myself worthy of my heritage. Before I may be a suitor—before I may be anything else—I must be no crown prince, but a simple knight-errant in search of a mission, a quest, a great deed that awaits the doing.”
His voice rang out now, filling the Great Hall like some brass-and-iron bell. “For all that I am his only son, he will not rest satisfied that our humble realm can safely be left in my hands until I have accomplished something of valor and value, something to show my father I have attained the stature of a true king. This is my task, before any other.” He lowered his voice and head together, humbly. “You are Bellemontagne made flesh, and set in place by God to guide and protect it. In all this land is there nothing for me to do, no hero’s task to achieve, no great wrong to right, that will both meet my obligation and prove my worthiness for your daughter?
“Pray speak, Your Highness. Direct me. For I am your sword and your shield, your arrow and your bow. Use me and free me—or send me on my way, to live forever in the empty darkness that would be life without your daughter.”
Afterward, everyone who had been there agreed it was quite the best betrothal they had ever seen.