by Jenny Plumb
Within a few hours, though, the castle loomed hugely before them, and, after a last, frantic effort among the ladies over Margrethe’s hairpins, which had not been disturbed by the journey at all, the princess descended from the coach, laying her hand in Ambassador Hevelsheim’s to accept his assistance. Margrethe looked around and saw a line of liveried servants, both men and maids, waiting for her, but there seemed no personage of importance, and she looked up at the ambassador curiously. “My lord?”
Hevelsheim was frowning, just a little bit – Margrethe could only see the frown in his usually placid eyes; his face was calm. “I am sure you will be properly greeted within, Your Highness.”
Margrethe nodded, for there was no good at all in finding slights in her new home as soon as she set foot on the ground. The people of Bohemia would, naturally, not know what to make of her as a stranger coming to marry their king. It was her duty to make sure they found no fault to complain of in her, not to complain of faults in them. “Of course.”
They were escorted into the enormous hall at the castle’s entrance, and Margrethe’s ladies took her fur wraps and handed them off to some of the Bohemian maids that were in attendance. The young princess straightened herself as tall as she could, but there was no disguising the tight, pale worry on her face. Cristina dared whisper, very quickly, “Your Highness has every perfection of form, education and character that might be desired – surely you know there is nothing to fear.”
Margrethe only had time to give her a smile, but it was hard to do. What Cristina said was, she certainly hoped, true. As the King of Denmark’s eldest daughter, Margrethe had been betrothed to King Rupert – Prince Rupert then – since she was in the cradle, and her father had made sure she had tutors in Bohemian to make her fluent in the language of her future husband. But she knew herself very well; she was not gay, or quick with repartee in company, nor had she the charm that would make a fault seem like a daring innovation. Whenever she made a mistake, Margrethe blushed heavily and could scarcely find her voice. In her own person, although she possessed the smooth, golden hair of her countrymen and intelligent sea-green eyes, Margrethe’s face was very pale and had more than once earned such dubious compliments as “seeming to belong to a statue rather than a living maid” and “the perfection of a master artificer.”
Here she was, though. The whey-faced, fearful Danish princess, ready to be wedded to a strange king. There was no time left to promise herself that tomorrow she would be braver or bolder. Tomorrow was today, and if she was ever to be brave, it must be now. A gray-bearded man in dark, fur-trimmed velvets came down the grand staircase, taking them at a very precise pace. Ambassador Hevelsheim stepped forward. “Lord Gottwald.” Though he was imperturbable as ever, there was unusual coldness in his address, and Margrethe could read the quarter inch he reserved in his bow: he was deeply offended, probably on her behalf. When Gottwald had bowed in return, the ambassador turned to her ostentatiously. “Your Highness, I beg leave to present Lord Gregor Gottwald, Chamberlain to His Majesty King Rupert.”
Margrethe nodded her permission and the thickset Bohemian chamberlain stepped forward and bowed before her. In his bow, there was a good half-inch of insult. Things were going from bad to worse. “Your Highness. It is my privilege to welcome you to your new home. King Rupert is occupied with matters of state, but he will sup with you this evening, and,” he continued, narrowing his eyes a little, “the Dowager Queen Carlotta offers her salutations and asks that you join her for tea this afternoon.”
Everyone was angry now – including Margrethe. To have her betrothed husband too busy to meet her upon arrival was excusable, if unpleasant. But for him to have sent no message, nor any word except that he would sup with her – it was unbearable. The Dowager Queen... that was Margrethe’s future mother-in-law, the notorious Carlotta. She had come from Spain thirty years ago in the state befitting the Infanta and proceeded to gain a reputation as one of the most frightening women in Europe. They said she had ruled her husband, King Ladislaus, absolutely – and some even whispered she had plotted his death, although Carlotta had been on pilgrimage for two months when King Ladislaus fell suddenly ill. There were whispers of poison – there were always whispers of poison. If the king had been poisoned, there was no proof who had arranged it. Nobody benefited, and everyone stood to lose, from open inquiry into the matter. But nothing could stop talk flitting from court to court like a strange butterfly, fertilizing the air with rumor along the way.
But if Margrethe responded to Gottwald’s rudeness with rudeness, things would only deteriorate further. He was obviously predisposed not to like her; that meant his rudeness was impersonal, like a man kicking a stone on the road in frustration. She drew in a deep breath and tried to smile. “Lord Gottwald, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please convey my best regards to Their Majesties.” She beckoned slightly with her left hand, and Anneka stepped forward, carrying a medium-sized rosewood casket from the luggage. “And, if you will, convey to His Majesty this gift from my father.”
The casket was filled with eighteen rubies as large as hawks’ eggs, and a note reading, I send you one ruby for each year of my daughter’s life, that you may know her far more precious than these. Her father had shown her the note before he put it in the casket, and kissed her very tenderly. Margrethe felt her throat tighten when she thought of it, but she hoped she did not betray her sudden swell of homesickness.
Gottwald flipped open the top of the rosewood box with two fingers, and at that, a spasm of annoyance did pass over her face, but fortunately he only poked at the darkly lustrous gems and grunted. He certainly was not looking at her. He closed the box again and said, “I shall certainly convey them to His Majesty.” A manservant came forward to take the carved jewel coffer. Gottwald gestured to a well-dressed man wearing a heavy steward’s chain. “The steward will convey you to your chambers. If Your Highness will excuse me.” His parting bow was still an insult, but less than the first, and Margrethe chose to understand that as progress.
She followed the steward through the enormous castle, looking around her in quiet wonder at the cavernous halls through which they passed, where dark wood gleamed richly underfoot and the warm fragrance of beeswax filled the air from the prodigal use of candles, lighting the ornately fan-vaulted ceilings. The chambers, when at last they reached them, were warm – that was a relief anyway, and once Cristina and her other ladies had managed to shoo away the Bohemian servants, she gratefully allowed herself to sink into a low chair by the fire. Birgitta, who was a good deal older than Margrethe and so tended to mother her, took her gloves and began making the princess more comfortable.
“That could have gone better,” Margrethe said flatly as soon as they were alone.
“They were so rude,” Anneka burst out, as though Margrethe’s words had removed a cork from between her lips. “That chamberlain didn’t even behave like a gentleman. He was pawing the rubies like...”
“Sweetmeats,” Cristina proclaimed, but she didn’t expand on the point. Her eyes were worriedly fixed on Margrethe, who was staring into the fire, looking very blank. “Princess, are you all right?”
“I am well,” Margrethe answered, but without sounding very convinced. “Somebody had better find out what time tea is served here – and what I must wear,” she added, rubbing her forehead with a sense of nervous fatigue. She had asked Lord Hevelsheim a great many questions about Bohemia, but while he had done his best to answer them, he had not noticed the kind of details that she would be expected to master, including points of fashion.
There was, as it turned out, only about an hour before Margrethe had to be ready to meet her new mother-in-law. There was barely time to press a blue velvet gown and hurry Margrethe into it before she was entering the Dowager Queen’s rooms. Carlotta was a small woman, with dark, intense eyes, which fixed searchingly on Margrethe’s face, though she was all smiles and her voice was very warm.
“My dear Princess,” she said, squeez
ing Margrethe’s hands, “I have been so looking forward to your arrival. You must forgive my son for seeming so rude. He is just like his father – all work and no sentiment, but I am sure he will be charmed by you. Your portrait hardly did you justice.” Carlotta was heavily perfumed, and the reek of it in the warm room made Margrethe giddy.
Still, she managed a smile of her own and murmured her thanks. She felt an instant dislike toward the older woman, though perhaps she was only prejudiced by all the gossip she had heard. In any case, she could hardly be rude to the one person in the Bohemian court who seemed kindly disposed towards her. “I hope His Majesty will share your opinion. You must tell me all about King Rupert, for I really know little about him.”
Carlotta’s smile broadened. “Poor child, you must be so nervous. And ambassadors are never any help in these matters. My son is very reserved, but he likes being fussed over. I suppose it is my fault – I have always spoiled him. He may have a hundred servants, waiting on his commands, but he had rather be served by his mother – or his wife. But he would never admit it, of course.”
A spoiled young man who wanted to be doted on by his women didn’t sound like the grave, reserved young king the ambassadors had described to her, but then perhaps Rupert gave a different face to his family than he did to his courtiers? That wasn’t unreasonable, and certainly his own mother ought to know him better than an ambassador who, after all, spent most of his time abroad. Margrethe listened intently as Carlotta talked on, serving tea and rich, dense cake which Margrethe only picked at a little, for she was much more interested in what she was hearing than what she ate. Carlotta, with her low compelling voice and quick-moving hands, painted what the princess considered a very strange picture of her future husband.
When the meal was at last done and Margrethe was again with her ladies, she was finally able to pick at the thing that had really bothered her. “Cristina,” she said softly, as she was being bathed. Her best friend was always by her in such quiet moments so that the young princess could speak in confidence. The court in Denmark, being so far north and thus considered scarcely civilized, was a good deal less formal than this place. But Margrethe had still been raised to understand the importance of her duties, so she was very docile while her fair, soft body was washed and perfumed with very little regard for the young woman within. “Cristina, why did he not come to greet me? If he is so eager for women’s love, as the Dowager Queen says?” It was the chief fault in the account Margrethe had been told. For while a man might well behave differently with his family than his ministers, he had already ignored her and sent his chamberlain to greet his betrothed in what was not quite an insult, but neither was it a good beginning to the marriage.
“She tells stories,” Cristina said bluntly, and Margrethe smiled faintly at her friend’s good sense and plain words. This was why Cristina was her best friend, the one who must always be near, for the young noblewoman did not mince words. The two had been raised together, and while Cristina was as tall as Margrethe was small, they were very like sisters. Lady Cristina had more than once had to bear the humiliation of being called the princess’s greyhound – though in personality she was more like a protective mastiff. “She doesn’t like you.”
Margrethe hummed softly and rolled her stiff neck while Cristina rubbed peppermint oil into the princess’s bosom to make the pale skin rosy. “Why? Why shouldn’t she like me?”
Cristina, who had looked worried and annoyed since their arrival, gave an exasperated sigh and pinched Margrethe’s nipple lightly, making the younger girl squeak and open her eyes wide in hurt surprise. “Oh, why should she not like such a sweet, adorable little kitten?” she mocked at first, but there was love as well as irritation in her voice, and she kissed her mistress’s forehead lightly, silently begging pardon. “Because you are a woman and she is a woman, and there is only so much woman power to go around. That is why, Your Highness.”
That was a good point. Woman power – it was the kind of awkward yet truthful phrase Cristina specialized in. Woman power, like poisons and perfumes, was very clearly the kind of thing the old queen adored. And woman power was also sex. Margrethe might arrive for her husband chaste, but she was not entirely stupid. If the king found her attractive and pleasing, her life would be better, and her wishes would be better attended. That was woman power too, and it would diminish the efficacy of the queen’s schemes.
Indeed, that had probably been part of the reason why this betrothal had been honored. The treaty between Bohemia and Denmark was old – it could have been ducked out of without too much offense on either side. For her father, it created a kind of stability he could wield against France and Spain. Queen Carlotta was a relic of old politics – and an old faith that Bohemia had rejected. To give woman power to a pretty, Protestant Danish princess was a way of defanging the corrupt old powers, the discreet, whispering cardinals, the Infantas and Emperors. It was, in a way, the point of the thing for Rupert and his ministers like the rude old chamberlain.
Margrethe opened her eyes and caught Cristina’s hand, holding it until her friend paused and met her eyes. Then the princess smiled, with genuine sweetness but just a hint of merry mischief. “I am a very charming kitten, Cristina,” she promised. “Perhaps all will be well after all.”
Chapter 2
Dinner was late, very late, and Margrethe, although she was very nervous about her meeting with Rupert, could not help a sort of ordinary animal hunger. She had eaten only a light traveler’s breakfast that morning, then picked at Carlotta’s rich teacakes, so that when Lord Hevelsheim, resplendent in ermines, led her into the Great Hall that evening, she was very nearly faint. Eager nerves sustained her, though, and Margrethe’s posture was perfection, and she bore the weight of her heavy velvet gown embroidered with pearls and sapphires elegantly. Though she did not look about herself boldly – that would be a disgrace indeed – she was very eager indeed. This was the first time she would come face to face with Rupert.
A little thrill went through her. His hair was dark, and brushed back severely, but there was a delicious hint of curl to it that gave a little touch of boyhood to the young man’s face. His cheekbones were high and sharp, but there was also a sensual depth to his dark eyes, and a rich curve to his lower lip. Rupert did not see her the very first instant she saw him: he was looking down, listening to something Gottwald was saying to him. Margrethe was glad, for she knew she flushed, and fancied she even startled. It was no bad thing. Her father had said to her, during a quiet talk before she left Denmark, that though she must make sure she seemed exactly the chaste, modest young princess she was, yet it would be better to appear to pleased and eager for her marriage than too frightened or in dread of the king.
“No good man wants his wife unhappy or very much afraid of him. For his wife to be a little afraid may bring a man a sense of strength – but he will very soon lay it aside to show her that he shall always be her protector and that she has nothing to fear.”
“But Papa,” Margrethe had said carefully, “what if King Rupert is not a good man?”
Her father sighed then, and almost would not hear that question, but his daughter did not let him off the hook and repeated it. Finally he said, “I have made every effort to find out about him, and I have at least found out no evil from my spies, my precious little girl. But if he is not a good man, then your fear and dread will not make him any better, and perhaps your confidence will. You must be brave and do your best. A good marriage is a beautiful thing and requires hard work from man and wife. Only show that you will do your part, and that is all I ask.”
Margrethe remembered that now as Rupert’s dark eyes were drawn by the click of her heels on the marble floors, slow and sedate as she proceeded toward the high table on Lord Hevelsheim’s arm, and she could feel the flush that stayed on her cheeks, warming them. She met Rupert’s gaze, a little boldly, but she smiled sweetly, hoping he would forgive it. When she stood directly in front of him, Margrethe stooped in a low curt
sy to her betrothed husband while the ambassador made all the formal presentations.
Rupert left her there just long enough to be really embarrassing, but then, instead of telling her to rise, he rose himself and came close to give her his hand. His big, warm fingers took her little hand as he pulled her to his feet, and Margrethe looked up inquiringly. But he did not return her look as he led her to the seat on his left where she would sit at dinner. He made some very pretty speeches of welcome. Margrethe did not listen to them very closely for she knew he did not mean them – they were the kind of thing someone had written for him, rich with classical allusions and grandiose phrases. She had very much hoped that Rupert might speak quietly, a few plain words for her alone. Instead he spoke loud and clear, official words for everyone to hear. She answered him in kind, but the words were not worth anything to either her or him.
The meal was long and extravagant and richly indigestible. There were musicians, and near the end of the meal, a poet was brought forth to read a poem composed in Margrethe’s honor. He was very young – younger, maybe, even than she was, and his rhymes were forced. He called Margrethe the “Snow Princess” from the “glitt’ring cap of the earth, come to be wed on the feast of Christ’s birth.” It was weak, pretty stuff, a little silly and Margrethe had an idea that he had written most of it before she arrived and put in a detail about the placement of a mole on her forehead at the last minute to make it seem actually composed about her. Rupert didn’t seem very impressed by the poem either, and Margrethe heard him snort at one of the funnier lines. She looked sideways at him, hoping to share a smile, but he had his hand up to his face so that his dark eyes were hidden by his hand pressed to his forehead, and she couldn’t catch his gaze.
They lingered over the table when the meal was done, and Margrethe was, for the most part, listening to the talk – Rupert never addressed a remark to her. She had made sure to speak enough so he understood she was really fluent in Bohemian and could speak to him if she wished, but he did not say anything to her, and the young princess was beginning to feel desperate. She brightened when she saw his wine cup empty, though, and she picked up the small silver pitcher of red wine herself and leaned forward to fill Rupert’s cup.
