Chapter 2
Asack-cloth mannequin lay in tatters at Lord Tyrell’s feet—dead. At least, more dead than it was when it was first stuffed with straw.
Tyrell, a scrawny-armed, eighteen-year-old, knew he did not look like the type of person who could have committed such a crime against burlap. Yet he had, and he was grinning about it too. He probably should not have been able to lift the longsword in his right hand, let alone swing it.
Even so, he had reduced the mannequin to smithereens.
This felt like something he should attribute to spending extra hours in the practice yard each day, but he had spent the last several days traveling to Iseldis for the ball.
In one sense, the ball had been quite disappointing as he never got the chance to dance with a particular lady.
But that was because the ball had been dramatically cut short by a magical attack directed at one of the Iseldan princes.
Most of the traveling nobles had remained in Iseldis to discuss the attack with King Frederich and provide arms should another attack surface.
Tyrrel wiped the sweat from his brow and held his sword aloft, to the cheers of his three best friends. Lane, Able, and Oswald all had twice Tyrell’s muscle but half his enthusiasm. Perhaps that was because none of them were fighting for the affection of a great lady.
Lane suddenly drew his sword and leapt atop the corpse of the mannequin.
“But can you take someone who can actually fight back?” he grinned.
Tyrell wiped his blade down and sheathed it, before shooting Lane a scowl. Able and Oswald were already wearing their arms in slings. Lane, for his part, still had his ear bandaged from their last spar.
Tyrell’s father, Lord Durando of Allys had warned him, sternly, that there was to be no sparring while visiting Iseldis. While of course, swordplay was an essential aspect of knighthood, so was being loyal to one’s lords and remaining uninjured so as to be prepared for a possible fight.
“Coward!” Lane taunted.
Tyrell opened his mouth to rebuke him but stopped abruptly because he noticed a great lady approaching—his lady . . . or at least the lady he wanted to be his—Princess Tavia.
Her hair, still golden as the morning sun, was woven into a regal mountain that sat atop her head, highlighting her delicate neck.
Her round lips, deeply scarlet, were pursed into a perfect rose bloom.
She did not walk, she floated, preserving her delicate feet from the unworthiness of the earth’s touch.
She was perfection made manifest, more delicate than a spider’s silk, grace incarnate . . .
She tripped over a root.
Tyrell swooped forward, catching her just before her ivory palms were desecrated with grassstains.
“Oh, thank you, my lord,” she said, straightening up and bestowing him with a dazzling smile.
Her maid appeared from just behind her—a brown-haired, round-faced freckled girl with braids that circled her head like a crown.
Tyrell had seen her several times, as his lady was never without her presence.
Her name was Lora or something. She brushed off her mistress’s gown.
An admirable maid to keep her lady’s needs at the forefront of her attention. Princess Tavia deserved that.
Now was Tyrell’s chance to woo his lady! Since first laying eyes on the princess, he had rehearsed this moment in his head a thousand times. Opening his mouth, he waited for poetry to pass his lips!
“Um, you’re welcome,” he mumbled.
Lora (or was it Lena?) snorted a laugh and curled her lips together to hide a smile. He felt his cheeks growing hot.
Tavia, now recovered, took a step forward presumably to resume her journey to wherever she was going. Tyrell’s heartbeat quickened, she couldn’t just brush past him! Not yet!
“Are-are you alright?” he blurted as she started to pass.
“Yes, thank you,” the princess nodded politely. She would have slipped right by, if (Mia maybe?) hadn’t caught her arm.
“I think Lord Tyrell wants to ask you something,” the handmaiden said, with a nod in his direction.
What Tyrell wanted suddenly, was to disappear. This was not how wooing a lady was supposed to work. He could feel the eyes of his friends watching him, hear Lane snickering. Tyrell straightened up. He could save this, he just needed to restart.
“Princess Tavia,” he said. He reached to pluck a nearby rose, but as soon as his fingers touched the thick, woody stem, he realized they weren’t the most pluck-able flowers.
He tugged a few times, while trying to keep his gaze locked with that of his lady.
It was hard to ignore the maiden at her side, who was clearly trying and failing to conceal a laugh.
Tyrell realized that tugging at that rose looked ridiculous, so releasing it, he stooped down and plucked a white clover flower from the grass at his feet.
A laugh escaped the handmaid, before she snapped her mouth closed and forced her lips into a tight seal.
When he offered the token to Tavia, she took it between two fingers almost as delicate as the stem itself.
“I was wondering if you . . .” Tyrell started. He put all of his focus onto Tavia’s lovely face, trying not to see her maiden or hear the snickers of his friends. “Would . . . maybe like to go riding with me later today?”
“Oh . . .” the princess drew her lips into a tiny scarlet circle. “You are so kind my lord, but . . .” she shrugged. “I am meeting someone else today.”
Tyrell’s shoulders sank.
“Oh, alright,” he nodded. “Perhaps some other time.”
“Perhaps,” the princess smiled politely. They both stared at each other for an eternally awkward moment, each wondering how to make a hasty escape.
Finally, the princess blurted out, “Well, good bye then!” And resumed her journey toward the castle.
The handmaid (really, her name wasn’t that difficult, why couldn’t he remember it?) hung back for a moment.
Tyrell guessed it was so she could bask a moment longer in his humiliation.
She was not grinning now though, she was looking back and forth between himself and the retreating princess with one eyebrow raised and thoughtfully pursed lips.
“Would you like another chance, my lord?” she whispered.
Tyrell, still paralysed, couldn’t make any reply aside from slightly raising an eyebrow.
“Meet me by the big oak behind the scullery after dinner.”
Tyrell blinked.
She must have taken this for assent, because she gave him a quick nod and then scurried after her mistress, leaving him alone to endure the mockery of his companions.