Royal Courting. #2
“Do you wish to wed?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes—I’ve always longed for a family of my own, though I fear that ship has long since sailed for me.”
Regina chuckled. “You already have the child, you merely need to find a man willing to overlook your lascivious escapades of yore,” she quipped, sipping her wine leisurely.
Laughter roared from Wolver, while the rest of the courtiers averted their eyes. Even Billy’s mouth dropped open in shock.
“Oh, Niamh, you don’t get the jest,” Regina continued with a mischievous glimmer in her eye. “Elizebeth bore a child out of wedlock—a bastard.”
My gaze darted about the table like a weathercock caught in a storm, finally settling on Elizebeth, whose features were shadowed with shame. Isobel offered a reassuring touch on her leg, but Elizebeth brushed it aside.
“None of the lords would offer a son to wed her once they learned she was with child,” Regina went on, her eyes alight as she relished in recounting Elizebeth’s disgrace. “So, her father extended the offer of her hand to anyone—even a commoner—who could slay the Knucker.”
She gestured toward the gruesome centerpiece—a gilded, decapitated head on display.
“Many villagers tried, but fortunately for Elizebeth, I was the only one capable of vanquishing that beast.”
Elizebeth’s downturned smile bore no gratitude—only heartbreak.
“Where’s your child now?” Fitzroy asked softly, concern furrowing his brow.
Elizebeth’s gaze remained low. “When Regina claimed me as her prize, I was forced to leave her in my father’s care. I haven’t seen her since I was sixteen. For all I know, Niamh could be her, and I’d be none the wiser.”
I recalled the tale Fitzroy had told me, how the Lord of the Wetlands, or perhaps the Marshlands, had promised his daughter’s hand to whoever could slay that beast.
“Who is your father?” I asked.
Elizebeth lifted her eyes to meet mine, her lip curling with restrained anger. “The Lord of the Wetlands,” she sneered, her words brimming with disdain.
I faltered, my breath snagging in my throat, leaving me momentarily speechless.
“Th-that’s not possible…” I stammered in disbelief.
With a strained sigh, she murmured, “I wish it wasn’t, but I assure you, he is.”
“I know his family well,” I said, hesitating. “They only have one daughter…”
My voice trailed off as I drifted into a memory of a travesty that haunted Avice—the harbinger for her hatred of sorcery. Before either of us could talk, in the dawn of the Dark Days, Avice’s elder sister vanished. The Lord blamed sorcery and began a merciless massacre of all things magical.
“My parents had another child?” Elizebeth asked, her question pulling me back to the banquet table.
“Fitzroy was meant to marry her,” I explained, nodding in his direction.
“Avice?” Fitzroy chimed in.
A flicker of hope brightened Elizebeth’s eyes. “I have a sister—”
“Had,” I corrected swiftly. “Had a sister.”
“The Black Shuck claimed poor Avice,” Regina announced.
Elizebeth’s face twisted with anguish as she looked upon her Queen.
“Why?” she asked.
“I’ll let Niamh unfold the series of events,” Regina said, reclining back as though savoring the spectacle.
At once, all eyes were upon me.
I hesitated only briefly. As tears streaked Elizebeth’s cheeks, I mustered the courage to speak my truth.
“Your father raised Avice to abhor magic. Even the mere mention of a wizard made her skin crawl. On the night she died, she overheard me speaking in Yfelle.”
I paused, glancing toward Regina, and in that instant, realization struck: She’d deliberately lured me into that forbidden conversation. By speaking Yfelle, she’d exposed my witchery to Avice, leaving me no choice but to have Dog silence her forever.
Unease twisted my insides, making me dizzy and sick. Fitzroy wasn’t lying—Regina’s power was beyond anything I could comprehend.
“She intended to tell the Lord what she’d heard,” I continued, ripping my gaze from Regina and locking eyes with Elizebeth. “He would’ve had my family hanging by their necks. The Lord of the Wetlands is an evil cunt.”
Grief coiled in my chest—an aching reminder of how merciless some people were in their pursuit of power. It felt unbearably cruel that Avice, who had no part in this royal feud, had to die so Regina could fortify her claim to the throne.
“Smith,” Fitzroy hissed. “Don’t use such language in front of royalty.”
Turning to Regina, he added, “I apologize—she’s a commoner.”
Once again, my emotions had governed my tongue. My heartbeat quickened with nerves, bracing for a reprimand.
Instead of punishment, Regina gave me a warm smile.
“I excuse her candor,” she said, lightly resting a hand upon her heart. “She has every reason to be angry at the deeds of my brother and his disciples.”
Her empathetic tone softened the anger I’d just harbored, replacing it with deep gratitude for the way she always understood me. I found myself desperately seeking Regina’s approval, yet I remained uncertain if I truly favored her.
“My father preaches anti-magical views?” Elizebeth asked, her brows drawn in worry.
I nodded sharply. “He’s known to be the strictest in all the realm. That’s why no stray creature wanders the Wetlands—until the Black Shuck appeared.”
Regina tapped her fist against the tabletop. “I’m growing weary of this conversation.” She sighed, feigning a yawn. “I want to watch a comedy of errors!” She clapped her hands together. “Goblins, perform for us!”
The Great Hall instantly stirred to life as goblins carried in pieces of set, carefully maneuvering props and panels into place.
A throne was heaved into the Great Hall and positioned between two benches, ready for us all to watch the comedy.
The Queen and her courtiers took to their new seats, and I joined them—though Fitzroy stayed at the banquet table, no doubt ensnared by the decanter full of wine.
It wasn’t long before everything was in place, and the performance commenced.
“If spells be the essence of bewitchment, cast on, give me an abundance of it!” a goblin declared dramatically, capturing my attention.
The performers reenacted a shipwreck with theatrical flair; goblins dove to the floor pretending to drown while others shook blue ribbons to mimic stormy waves.
Regina tittered at their antics.
Then, a goblinette emerged unscathed from the wreckage, gasping for air. “Wherefore art thou, my twin brother?” she cried, acting vanquished. “Alas! He hath drowned at sea.”
She then pretended to faint, collapsing into the arms of a fellow goblin.
As the play entered its second act, my thoughts were consumed by the evening’s revelations.
From the corner of my eye, I studied Elizebeth more closely. In her, I caught snippets of Avice—the auburn hair framing green eyes, the delicate features, and the graceful way she carried herself, all mirroring Avice’s effortless charm.
Then I looked to Regina, and a chill rolled down my spine. She sat upon her glittering throne, the lines around her violet eyes deepening as she smiled at the show. I wanted to believe she was the rightful heir, just as her loyal courtiers did, but I was apprehensive.
A goblin stumbled onto a stool, cleared his throat, and delivered the closing line. “That shall conclude our play! In Lyonesse, it raineth every day!”
The courtiers applauded as the goblins and goblinettes took their bows.
Regina retired promptly, with Wolver following in her wake. One by one, the courtiers departed for their chambers, leaving Fitzroy behind at the banquet table, nursing a goblet of wine.
“Did you enjoy the play?” I asked, taking a seat beside him.
He shook his head. “I prefer a tragedy.”
“Speaking of tragedies, I cannot fathom that Elizebeth hasn’t seen her daughter for so many years. Her own father, giving her away—treating her like a prize—all to salvage his pride. Can you imagine?”
Fitzroy snorted as if the question were ridiculous. “It astonishes me more that you’re surprised. There aren’t many kind or genuine people in positions of power.”
I nodded, accepting his view, though still reeling from the revelation.
Fitzroy reached for the decanter, pouring the remaining dregs into his goblet.
“Do you want to know what truly baffles me? Your unquenchable thirst,” I teased, aware that if I’d consumed even half as much as him tonight, I’d be sprawled out beneath the table.
He laughed. “I don’t retreat to my bedstead while I can still recall my own name.”
“Do you remember it?”
Fitzroy raised his eyes to meet mine. “I do, Niamh.”
A feather-light flutter tickled my stomach at the sound of him saying my name.
“You’ve never called me that before.”
“May I call you Niamh?”
I nodded, and a gentle smile crept onto his face.
He took my hand, turning it so my purple palm faced upward. “You’re one of the hardest-working people I know,” he murmured, gently tracing the swirls upon my skin.
“I aspire to be as great a sorcerer as you by the summer solstice,” I said, enjoying his affectionate touch.
Fitzroy released my hand, his fingers returning to the stem of his goblet.
“I admire your determination,” he remarked before taking a sip of wine.
“But…” I said, waiting for the inevitable punchline.
He merely shook his head. “Just admiration.”
“That’s the first kind thing you’ve said to me without counterbalancing it with something cruel,” I noted.
“Am I truly so unkind?” he asked, his voice gentler than usual. “Lately, I think naught but good of you—even if my words suggest otherwise.”
My heart thumped a little faster.
“You think of me?” My tone was laced with skepticism, but internally I hoped he was being honest.
Fitzroy bit his bottom lip, his gaze briefly flickering to my mouth. “Sometimes, I find it hard to think of much else.”
My brow furrowed, doubting the honesty of his words, yet my lips betrayed me, curling into a smile at the thought of occupying his mind.
“I didn’t know you had the capacity to think about anyone besides your own self,” I quipped.
Fitzroy chuckled, toasting his goblet to me as if I made a valid point.