The Reluctant Wife Read online

  ‘Thank you, Leopold,’ said the queen dryly. ‘Will you be staying for the Presentation?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘I hope the duchess accompanies you?’

  ‘She does not.’

  ‘That is a shame. I have not seen her once this year. I hope you are not keeping her hidden away, Leopold?’

  The duke laughed his shrill laugh.

  ‘And Lillai? Is she well? I should like to see her too. She must be just past her seond year?’

  ‘She is well,’ said the duke dismissively. ‘Is my uncle in health?’

  ‘The king is in excellent health.’

  Irritation flashed across the duke’s face. ‘He is not too disappointed? About it being a girl?’

  ‘If you mean the king may be disappointed at not having a direct heir...’ she said carefully, watching the duke’s mouth twitching in his attempt to suppress a smirk. ‘He has no need to.’

  She took satisfaction in seeing the duke’s countenance change from glee to confusion.

  ‘What do you mean, dear Aunt?’

  ‘Have you not heard the news? The king and queen of Moravina have just had a son. On the very same day as our princess was born. Imagine that. Two royal children born on the first day of summer. It surely must be a sign. Do you not agree?’

  The confusion on the duke’s face deepened.

  ‘As you know,’ said the queen, ‘the crown lands of Boheme and Moravina have historically shared the same ruler many times.’

  ‘Yes...’ drawled the duke, still looking puzzled.

  ‘So...if the Moravinan prince were to marry our princess...’ She let the duke fit the pieces together in his mind. She knew when he had done so by the dismay overtaking the confusion on his face.

  ‘You would combine the kingdoms once again,’ he said in a high voice.

  ‘Our kingdoms have always fared better when they are united.’

  ‘But, but you cannot arrange such a marriage. There is the Law of Best Suit!’

  ‘I know,’ said the queen breezily. ‘But who could have a better suit than the crown prince of Moravina? We shall see eighteen years from now.’

  The duke’s long, face crumpled into a scowl. ‘Anything can happen in eighteen years,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Eighteen years is a long time. People don’t always marry whom they are expected to. People grow old. People die.’

  ‘That is true.’ The queen narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Fortunately, my daughter will have the advantage of her Guardians.’ She waved the letters, their gilt edges catching the light from the window. ‘Overseeing a good marriage is one thing they are particularly good at.’ She put the letters down on the table beside her and looked to her secretary. ‘Make sure these are sent quickly.’

  ‘Very good, Your Highness. They shall be sent this very hour.’

  The royal secretary made a grave bow and took up the letters in his white-gloved hand.

  It was the duke’s turn to narrow his eyes as he looked at the letters in the hand of the royal secretary as he passed by. He caught sight of the name written in large, elaborate script on the topmost one: The Lady Terebellum, Fey Guardian of the Hidden Earth, Faery Guardian of Royal Daughters.

  ‘Faery Guardians,’ murmured the duke. ‘Excuse me, Aunt Ursula. I must go and greet my uncle now.’ He bowed hurriedly and left the chamber, following closely behind the royal secretary.

  ‘Just put your hand inside the saddlebag and pull out the letters inside,’ the duke whispered at the young urchin he found working in the stables. ‘That’s all you have to do. Not difficult. A gold mark for an easy job.’

  ‘But, milord,’ protested the stable boy. ‘If I was caught stealing I’d be hanged!’

  ‘Well, don’t get caught,’ hissed the duke.

  The boy continued to shake his head.

  ‘Two gold marks,’ the duke added to no avail. ‘Three gold marks!’ And he pulled them out of the moneybag at his belt and thrust them at the boy.

  The urchin’s eyes widened at the sight of so much gold. He could leave the stables and make his own way in the world with that kind of money. He put a hand out tentatively and took hold of them.

  ‘Quick,’ urged the duke. ‘He’s about to set off.’

  The boy ran to the stall where a horse had been saddled for the royal courier. The courier had put his letters in his saddlebag and was ready to lead his mount from the stable.

  ‘’Scuse me, sir,’ called the boy. ‘I need to check the stirrups before you set off.’

  The duke appeared at the door of the stall and called the courier over, distracting him while the boy fumbled with the strap on the saddlebag, thrust his hand inside, and dragged something out. He whisked the stolen item under his tunic and remade the strap.

  ‘All done, sir,’ called the boy to the courier.

  The courier mounted up and was gone.

  ‘Hand them over then.’ The duke’s fingers quivered with eagerness.

  The boy pulled out the paper from under his tunic, thrust it at the duke, and took off as though he had a pack of hounds at his heels.

  ‘Hoi!’ the duke called after him. ‘Hoi, there’s only one!’

  But he was gone.

  ‘A pox on faery guardians and weaselly stable hands!’ He turned the letter over again to be sure there really was only one letter and not seven. ‘Well, one less guardian is better than all seven,’ he grumbled, looking at the writing on the front of it.

  ‘Terebellum’, he read. ‘Hah! Excellent choice. Everybody knows how terrible she can be!’ Then he crumpled it up with both fists.

  Chapter 3

  ‘All is ready for your inspection, Your Highness.’ The grand chamberlain nodded to the footmen standing either side of the double doors. In well-practised synchronicity, they turned the ornate handles and swept back the doors of the banquet hall to reveal a tableau of wonder.

  The queen was a dignified woman and surprised by very little, but the sight that greeted her caused a sound like that of a small child’s delight to escape. Her eyes widened and glinted with the refracted light of forty-four crystal chandeliers and twenty-four glass mirrors hung equidistantly along the chamber walls. She made her way down the length of the banquet table, watching the head steward use his brass measuring-rod to check that every plate and goblet was perfectly spaced.

  She inhaled the heady scent from the vast bowls of fragrant crocuses, the bouquets of lily of the valley, the urns of early roses in full bloom. She nodded her approval at the polish on the silverware and the choice of embroidered linen napkins. She studied the seating arrangements; there must be no mistakes. No landgrave must be seated above a margrave. No baron above an earl.

  ‘Very good,’ she pronounced.

  The grand chamberlain and chief steward glowed.

  Next, she inspected the seven chairs set upon the dais at the king and queen’s own table. ‘Are these the best that can be found?’ She placed a hand on an armrest, tracing the design carved into the back of the chair: delicate flower garlands, entwined coronets, and a pair of rampant unicorns.

  The grand chamberlain looked astonished at such a question. ‘There are no chairs to be found to compare in all the kingdom, Your Highness. They are unmatched in workmanship, part elven as you know.’

  ‘I refer to the cushions.’ The queen pointed at the velvet seat cushions. ‘They do not look fresh enough. The Guardians must have newly made ones.’

  ‘Certainly, Your Highness,’ said the grand chamberlain, ducking his head as though he felt a tad foolish. ‘I will send word to the royal seamstress immediately.’

  The queen ran a light finger along the rims of the jewel-encrusted goblets and plates. One for herself, one for the king, and those for the Guardians: nine settings in all.

  ‘The Guardians never eat our food,’ she mused. ‘But it would seem impolite not to set them a place.’

  ‘There is a tradition told of the lady Mimosa being partial to fruit,’ the grand chamberlain said.


  The queen considered this. ‘Have a platter of fresh fruit placed before them,’ she ordered. ‘But it must be freshly picked. They will have to gather it just before sunset.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  The day of the Presentation banquet came. The guests arrived in a bustle of carriages and horses. That evening, the royal family waited in the antechamber of the great hall where they could hear their guests taking their seats.

  ‘Well, my pretty one,’ said the king, bending over his daughter who lay in all her pinkness and laciness in Lady Sofia’s arms. ‘Today is your big day. No mewling during the speeches, no fussing through the toasts, and most especially, my sweet one, be on your best manners for the Guardians. We cannot upset them. They can turn you into an ugly toad if you offend them. Tricksy and fickle creatures are faeries.’

  Lady Sofia laughed her silvery laugh. ‘Oh, Your Highness, you know that the princess is the most perfectly behaved child that ever was. And you must not tease her.” She stroked the princess’s cheek and murmured, ‘Your Papa, does not mean it about being an ugly toad, little one.’

  ‘Your cloak and crown, dear,’ said the queen to her husband, looking down at his bare head, for she was a full head taller than him.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he grumbled.

  ‘I know you would sooner be in riding boots and a woollen hat than in ermine and gold, dear, but this is all for our princess,’ the queen scolded. But she smiled as she spoke, for this was a proud day, and the king’s growing love and acceptance of his daughter pleased her.

  Today was the day the Guardians would fulfill the promise made.

  The daughter of the faery king and queen had promised that forevermore the royal daughters of Boheme and Moravina would be attended at their Presentation feast by seven faery guardians. An honour given in return for the help once given by a mortal princess of Boheme and Moravina, in the days when it had been a united kingdom.

  Only one thing was required of the mortal kings and queens – they must formally invite the Guardians as guests of honour. In return, the Guardians would bring blessings for the new princess, but they must not neglect to send the invite, for that would be a great disrespect to the unsurpassable honour bestowed upon mortals by the fair-folk.

  Never before had such a promise, such a gift, such benefice, such a meeting of mortal and faery existed. As long as the kingdoms of Boheme and Moravina remained, this promise would be fulfilled.

  ‘All is ready, Your Highnesses,’ announced the master of the ceremony.

  ‘Very good.’ The king straightened. His chief valet hurried to place the ermine-lined cloak about the king’s shoulders, fixing it in place with the ruby˗ and diamond-encrusted clasp. ‘I do so dislike this one,’ complained the king as his ceremonial banqueting crown was raised towards his head. ‘It is so heavy.’

  Before he could make any further complaints, the doors to the banquet room were opened.

  Chapter 4

  The queen looked out at her assembled guests. The candles glimmered, and the scent of roses and lily of the valley wrought a heady fragrance. The banquet hall was filled with eager faces and excited voices. The royal dais was sumptuous with crowns and ermine-trimmed robes, and the royal princess slept softly in the arms of the new chief lady-in-waiting, Lady Sofia.

  The ranks of footmen and servers were poised to bring in the platters and jugs, and the musicians in the gallery awaited the signal to strike up their instruments. Anticipation fissured the air; expectancy swelled up to the high ceiling; excitement bubbled up like the fountains in the formal gardens, for since the birth of the king’s mother more than seventy years ago, no one had seen the Guardians in living memory, except the frail Serdar of Serbania.

  The serdar quivered with the memory of that day, for though he could not recall what he had dined on that morning for breakfast, nor what the name of his first wife or his favourite horse was, he could well recall that day. As a young man of sixteen years, he had beheld the seven Guardian faeries as they blessed the infant princess. He spoke of beauty, of grace, of gossamer, of unearthly flowers and sights and senses without human words to describe. He had never forgotten that day, and he was the only one to recognise the first faery arrival on this day.

  At the sound of the faint tapping against the glass, he looked up at the window above the royal dais. He pointed his knotted finger and cried out in his whispery voice, ‘She has come. She has come!’

  His immediate neighbours turned their heads to see. They saw the sparrow fluttering beyond the window, outlined by the light of the setting sun behind it, tapping its beak against the glass. They shook their heads at the serdar and patted his gnarly hand to reassure him it was a garden bird, nothing more.

  ‘Garden birds don’t flit about at evening,’ he insisted, but no one paid him heed.

  Then came a whoosh of light, as though a hundred candles had flared up together. There was a ripple of exclamation, and every eye turned to the royal dais from where the light streamed. A burst of colour exploded, as though great baskets of flower blossoms had been cast up into the air. Out of the midst of the light and colour, a form took shape, and the guests gasped in delight as a maiden appeared before their dazzled eyes. A maiden whose face glowed golden as early morning light, whose hair, the colour of rich, new-tilled earth, billowed to her feet. Her gown was a tapestry of living buds and leaves and flowers.

  ‘Welcome, Lady Mimosa, Guardian of the Land,’ cried the queen, dropping into a deep curtsey.

  ‘Welcome, my lady,’ called out the king, bowing as low as the stiffness in his back and knees would allow him.

  ‘Why do you bar my sister?’ said Mimosa in a lilting voice. She pointed a shining hand toward the window.

  ‘Open it – quickly!’ said the queen.

  Two attendants rushed to the window and grappled together to be the one to release the golden latch.

  A rush of air gushed through the chamber as a brown bird sped about the hall, a trail of sparkling air currents in its wake. It darted like sunbeams until it came to rest beside the lady Mimosa, and as it settled upon the second elven throne, there was a funnel of glittering wind that faded away to reveal the form of a second maiden. The guests gasped in delight a second time at the beautiful lady with midnight hair and a gown that shimmered as starlight when she moved one way and shone bright as a midsummer sky when she turned another.

  ‘Welcome, Lady Faerlith, Guardian of the Air!’ The queen curtsied deeply a second time.

  ‘Welcome!’ The king struggled to bow once again.

  Then came the sound of a gentle clattering of hooves, and all turned to the sound and watched as a female deer walked without fear down the long hall. She bounded gracefully upon the dais, and then suddenly, where there had been a graceful doe, there was a young lady, as slender and silvery as a birch tree, now seated upon the third throne.

  ‘Welcome, Lady Orionis, Guardian of the Woodlands and Forests,’ called out the king and queen, but they had barely spoken their greeting when a strange form began to take shape upon the fourth chair – a watery form, translucent and fluid, and from it emerged the more solid figure of a woman with eyes and hair the colour of emeralds.

  ‘Welcome Lady Aurora,’ called the queen, ‘Guardian of Still Waters.’

  Beside the lady Aurora there now materialised a fifth lady with soft, white hair, rippling as a waterfall down to the floor and pooling about the legs of the carved throne. Her gown was glassy as water, her eyes of icy blue.

  ‘Welcome, Lady Corona, Guardian of Moving Waters,’ greeted the king and queen.

  Across the dais, fingers of mist were forming; they drifted and swirled about the king and queen and circled the sixth throne before settling upon it. From out of the haze emerged a lady in a gown of soft lilac with hair as the mist in the foothills of Bavarre. The scent of honeyed gorse blossom drifted through the hall.

  ‘Welcome, Lady Celeste, Guardian of the Hills,’ said the king and queen.

  The G
uardians were seated and looked about them at the sea of enchanted faces.

  ‘And where is our sister, Terebellum?’ asked Faerlith in a voice as a fragrant summer breeze.

  The king looked to his wife.

  ‘I certainly sent her an invitation,’ said the queen.

  Only one pair of eyes among the guests at the banquet table flickered from their raptured gaze at the Guardians. It was a momentary look, a flash of remembered guilt without shame, a dart of satisfied mischief. No one at the banquet table would have noticed, even had they not been transfixed by the glowing forms of the Guardians. But Faerlith saw. She noticed the green flicker of malice in the air, hovering before the long, thin face of the man in the place of honour at the guests’ table.

  She narrowed her eyes and was about to speak when a rumbling beneath the marble-tiled floor caused every guest to gasp and give a startled look down at their feet. An explosive noise like that of a canon sounded, and many cried out that there was an attack upon the palace.

  From out of the ground shot forth a dark and twining tendril, like that of a tree root. It spiralled upwards in a dark haze, and then the haze dissolved as slowly as early morning mist, and there was revealed a seventh maidenly form with hair as polished jet, eyes as flashing diamonds, and a gown of darkness with secret jewels glinting in its folds.

  ‘Welcome, Lady Terebellum, Guardian of the Hidden Earth,’ cried the queen.

  But before she could sink into a curtsey, before the king could force his stiffening back to bend a seventh time, the Lady Terebellum lifted up a hand, with a movement as dark and fluid as an underground spring. ‘Silence!’ she commanded, and every living soul caught their breath.

  ‘Is it not insult enough to neglect my invitation? Is it not discourtesy enough that I alone am offended in such manner?’ She glared at her sisters upon their thrones. ‘Must you feign respect and welcome at my appearance, though it is only due to my curiosity at my sisters stepping forth into the mortal realm, and not because of an invite that is mine by promise?’