by Thomas Green
“Ssssh, Aisling,” Katherine whispered. That wasn’t the girl’s name, but one day, she was going to name her daughter Aisling. And in this illusion, in this trial, she felt like she could name the girl. The daughter. But this wasn’t a democracy and she was starting to get the feeling for this trial’s contents. “Everything will be fine. Now, go get dressed.” Gently, but firmly, she stroked Aisling’s hair.
Aisling didn’t want to let go, holding on to Katherine until she, the queen, pushed her off. “But I’m only twelve. I’m too young to get married.”
Katherine’s heart broke a little. Medieval ages weren’t nice to young girls. She would never force her daughter to marry unless she wanted to, especially not at such a young age. But in this illusion, in this trial, Katherine was a queen, and queens were not to be denied. “Go get dressed.”
Slowly, Aisling let go of Katherine’s hand, and walked away, tears sliding down her face.
Made by a spell or not, Katherine wanted to hold onto her daughter as long as she could. But others were waiting for her and this trial clearly wasn’t like the previous ones. From how things looked, Lucielle originally made three gates to protect the vault’s core.
But as she expanded the vault into her memoirs, she needed more space, so she built around the original gates and then had to secure them with new gates, which she hastily patched together since she had nothing of true value there and, well, no one ever breached the three original gates to begin with.
And now, around her, the courtiers and guards finished preparations, and took their places around the throne hall.
Katherine motioned with her hand. “Bring the princess.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” a fully-armored knight standing to Katherine’s right said, nodded, and left, heavy boots clanging on the stone floor.
A moment later, led by the knight, two court ladies brought Aisling. She looked so sweet, cute, and innocent, with long ginger hair, green eyes that matched Katherine’s, wearing a dark green dress embellished with gold.
So young, innocent, and lovely. Katherine motioned her to a seat by the throne’s side. Tearing up once more, Aisling aimed a desperate stare at Katherine.
Katherine’s chest clenched. Memories popped to Katherine’s mind, flooding her consciousness for a moment. She remembered giving birth to Aisling, the moment of holding her in her arms for the first time, how it changed her life, how the daughter became the centerpiece of her universe.
As if it happened yesterday, Katherine remembered watching Aisling’s first steps, her first word, mom, and how she raised the girl all the way to hugging her until she fell asleep last night.
Katherine reminded herself this was a trial, an illusion, a test, but it didn’t work. The emotions were real. At every level, Aisling felt like Katherine’s daughter. How was she supposed marry her away?
The courtiers finished preparations, the guards all moved into their position, the bards to their posts at the side, and the welcoming delegation walked to the gate. More or less visibly, everyone looked at Katherine.
Nearly petrified, she motioned with her hand. “Begin.”
Guards opened the door, revealing a crowd of nobles already gathered outside. Name by name, the courtier by the door let the nobles enter, where other courtiers led them to their table.
As the hall started filling, Katherine dug in herself for the resolve for what the trial was going to ask her. Clearly, she was supposed to pick a husband for her only, beloved daughter, to marry her away. And she was supposed to pick the candidate that Lucielle thought a proper king would choose.
The hall filled within moments, each major table taken by a delegation from another kingdom, judging by the differing color of their clothes and the emblems they bore. Three stood out. One bore gray colors, cloth made of furs, jewelry of silver or made of bone. Nords.
The second largest delegation wore flowery patterns on the women clothes, but the insignia of knightly orders on the doublets of men. Franks.
And finally, the third group had crosses everywhere they could, the main color of clothes being dark red. Spaniards.
From the imagery Katherine had seen, she remembered Lucielle once helped Vikings cross the sea to plunder Britain. This had to be the court of the British king from after that period, adjusted by the spell matching what it could to Katherine’s memories.
Since no nobles remained outside, the guards closed the door while an older man in heavy robes walked to the throne’s side, the one opposite from her daughter. The master of ceremonies.
Katherine observed Aisling for a moment. The girl’s tears and despair were gone, replaced with caution and sneaky peeks toward each delegation.
Suppressing a smile, Katherine motioned to the master of ceremonies. After clearing his throat, he stepped forward, and the bards played a short intro on their trumpets.
“Today,” the master of ceremonies said in a firm voice, “we meet for the historic occasion of Princess Aisling O’Connor of the Kingdom of Ireland betrothal to a chosen prince. The choice will be made by the High Queen of Ireland, her majesty, Katherine O’Connor. Feel welcomed to the occasion, and do not take offense should your prince not be chosen.”
A murmur passed through the crowd. And Katherine had to fight tears. Had she been born eight hundred years sooner, she might have well been in Aisling’s position, a young princess destined to be wed away to a foreign kingdom, given to a man she would meet for the first time on the day of their betrothal.
And, a few well-timed assassinations and a civil war later, she might have been the Queen of Ireland.
“May the prince of Frankia come forth,” the master of ceremonies said.
Flanked by two knights, a young prince rose from the Frankish table. Katherine judged him to be about fifteen to sixteen years old, handsome with long, wavy, blond hair, eyes blue, skin soft and without scars.
Without stumbling, he walked to the base of the stairs in front of Katherine’s throne, and bowed deeply. “I thank you for the opportunity to be here, your Highness.”
Graciously, Katherine nodded. She liked being called that. His English was perfect, though Katherine wasn’t sure if that wasn’t due to the trial’s magical nature.
“I am Prince Raoul, the fourth child of Robert the 1st, the Duke of Burgundy, soon to be the Emperor of the Frankish Empire,” the young prince said and looked at her charmingly, apparently awaiting questions.
Katherine apparently had to figure out the details herself. So, what would be the features of a candidate a king would approve of? Potentially, the man marrying her daughter would become the King of Ireland after Katherine’s eventual demise, so she was effectively choosing the next king.
First, by the lack of a king by Katherine’s side, a king had to be strong in terms of the military. A fool would lose the kingdom in a pointless war. “Have you ever been in battle?” Katherine asked.
“Many times,” the prince said, and smiled. “My greatest achievements are my army taking Toulouse, and the defeat of the Duke Hanz in his incursion into our lands.”
The Frankish prince fought a lot more than how he looked. “Did you lead the army in those battles?”
“Yes, your Highness. I was the general in both cases, and in the end, I defeated Duke Hanz in single combat.”
She frowned. “How would the fourth child become in charge of an army? What were your older brothers doing?”
A moment of confusion passed his face, but he recomposed quickly. “My father deems it not to be the place for my sisters to lead his armies.”
Sisters? “How many sisters do you have, in total? Any younger brothers?”
“I have six sisters and no brothers, your Highness.”
Well, that was a problem. First of all, sons were preferred to daughters in royal bloodlines due to the law allowing them to keep the crown. One son among six daughters suggested his bloodline bore many daughters, not to mention that implied a solid chance of him being a bastard, sired by someone other tha
n the Duke. Her choosing a king that could be revealed to be a bastard wouldn’t be wise. And this also explained the battle experience that didn’t match his age. As a probable bastard, he had to prove himself. Still, she needed to ask the third question she prepared. “Should my kingdom increase taxes?”
A smile returned to Raoul’s face. “No, your Highness. Your armies are known to be formidable, and I believe the people know best how to spend their own money for the benefit of their own kingdom. In Frankish, I would say laissez-faires.”
The army was never quite formidable enough, but he did provide a sensible answer. Katherine dismissed him with a wave of her hand and observed Aisling. The girl sat pressed against the back of her seat, arms crossed over herself, but she watched the young prince bow and leave with no sign of disgust. There was also no sign of interest.
“Next,” the master of ceremonies said, “May the prince from Madrid come forth.”
A young man rose from the ranks of the Spaniards. This one had brown hair, cut short. He was smaller than the Frankish prince, less wide in shoulders in spite of a stuffed doublet. He stepped forward alone, bowing deeply. After he reached the bottom of the stairs in front of Katherine’s throne, he bowed so deeply his head almost touched the stairs. “I am Prince Ricardo of Leon,” he said, slightly stuttering. “Son of Sancho the 3rd.”
Katherine smiled subtly as the prince said nothing more. Normally, the prince would now answer the previous questions, but the magical simulation apparently had limits to how human-like the individual actors were.
“And as for my accomplishments,” the prince added, stuttering. “I have aided my father in chasing the Moors out of our kingdom, liberating our people through countless battles. I have also taken part in writing the new law for our lands.”
Katherine frowned. The spell wasn’t supposed to be this good, and it seemed to be reading her thoughts. That made everything more realistic, especially Aisling.
“No way can this lad even lift a pike,” someone shouted from the Nordic table.
Oh, really? A murmur passed through the crowd and Katherine looked at the knight standing next to her. “Captain,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear. “The next time someone interrupts me, behead him.”
“Yes, your Highness,” the knight said and the hall fell silent.
Whose court did they think they were attending? Katherine turned her attention back to the Spanish prince. He apparently wasn’t much of a warrior but participating in campaigns against the Moors would bless him with experience from observing his father, and wisdom from seeing the resulting suffering. Not bad. “How many siblings do you have?”
“I am the King’s only child.”
If there were others but dead, he would have mentioned that, so the Spanish king wasn’t doing a terribly good job at reproducing. “Should my kingdom increase taxes?”
“Yes, or at least the spending needs to be restructured,” the prince said, “for more should be given to the Church. On my path through your lands, I saw Churches without guards, some having the roof roughly patched. The faithful deserve better, for it is only though the Lord that our souls can be saved.”
Also a sensible answer. Katherine dismissed him with a wave of her hand. She knew what she needed and glanced at Aisling. The princess watched the Spanish prince with interest, toying with a strand of her hair, eyes following the prince’s every step.
The prince finally stopped bowing and returned to his table.
“And next,” the master of ceremonies said, “Jarl Bjorn.”
Katherine watched a large man rise from the table, instantly noticing Aisling’s lips curled up in disgust. Bjorn was well over six feet tall, had hair shaved at the sides, and a light beard. A nasty scar ran down his face over his eye.
When the jarl reached the stair’s bottom, he bowed only lightly. “I am Jarl Bjorn of Jomsborg, son of King Harald, and I am the captain of Jolmsvikings.”
Katherine recognized the voice as the man who interrupted her earlier. But even she knew what Jolmsvikings were. The most elite Viking mercenaries, and pagans to the bone. For a man this young, about twenty years of age, to be their captain, spoke volumes of his combat experience and prowess.
“I have too many battle accomplishments to list, including dozens of victories against men like the two princes seated at the other tables.”
A murmur passed through the crowd but no one dared to speak up.
“I command over a thousand of the fiercest warriors of the North, and a fleet of over two hundred ships.”
“What of your lineage? Any siblings?” Katherine asked.
“I am the oldest of seven sons.”
Aisling kept paling in her seat, looking as if she wanted to merge with the chair to disappear.
Katherine paid that little heed. “Should my kingdom increase taxes?”
“No,” he said calmly. “The lands are flourishing, so there is no need to change anything. The best way for your kingdom to increase its budget would be to raid the Spanish lands, since they are now weakened by the war against the moors.”
That earned him another disapproving set of murmurs from the crowd, especially the Spanish delegation.
Katherine waved him off with her hand. Three princes, three candidates, and she had to choose one.
The master of ceremonies hit the floor with the butt of his staff, the sound echoing through the hall. “We have heard from the three candidates. If no one else is present to try for the hand of princess Aisling,—”
“I am here to contest,” a member of Katherine’s royal guard shouted, putting down his helmet, and started walking toward the throne.
Murmuring took over the hall, and Katherine didn’t miss Aisling straightening her back, raising her chin, cheeks slightly flushed, lips open. So, a member of Katherine’s own royal guard had been dating her daughter. Alright.
The knight kneeled, “I am Sir Henry of Belfast. And I should be the one to marry your daughter since she is pregnant with our child.”
Was she? Katherine remembered Aisling having her first period half a year ago, so that was possible. But she hadn’t noticed any change in the girl’s behavior. So, it was either too recent for anyone to notice or they spent one night and he was merely hoping for that to be true.
Katherine glanced at the captain of her guard. “Captain, what did I tell you to do about the next person to interrupt me?”
Pale beneath the helmet, the captain said, “Seize him.”
Four guards walked from the sides toward the young knight.
In the meantime, Katherine focused on Aisling, and whispered, “Explico.” The spell searched Aisling’s body. Not a virgin anymore, but not pregnant either. Good, because a pregnant yet unmarried princess was worthless.
As the four guards approached Henry, he drew his sword. They did too, and soon, blades flashed through the air.
Henry was better than good. His blade true, steps sure, the sword’s tip finding the gaps in armor and visors. Undoubtedly, he was the best swordsman in her royal guard, and as a testimony to that, the four other guards soon lay dead on the floor.
“Our love is stronger than your greed, your Highness,” the knight shouted. “Everyone can see that. And as a descendant of Tuatha dé Danann, as the son of Nuada, I am of more than of noble enough origin.”
Tuatha dé Danann, the gods of times before Catholicism took over Ireland. She would have noticed had he been pureblooded, so he had to be a demigod. Also, Aisling blushed, biting her lip, playing with a strand of her hair. She so was in love.
But this was not a democracy. Katherine glared at her guard’s captain. “Well? What happened to the seizing?”
With shallow breath, the captain squeezed out, “Your Highness, we have no hope, nor the right, to challenge a descendant of Tuatha dé Danann. We cannot fight gods.”
Katherine didn’t blame him. She rose, feeling all eyes on her. For the first time in her life, she enjoyed the attention. Shy, that was how she act
ed for her entire existence, but now, fake or not, she wore a crown atop her head. Everyone was supposed to be looking at her. She peered down at the prince. So young, so handsome, so full of strength, righteousness, and ideals. But he wasn’t the only descendant of Tuatha dé Danann in the hall. “Who do you think you are?”
The prince wavered for a second, grasping his sword tighter.
Katherine snapped her arms forward, “Lancea in exitum.” Two bolts of white-hot flame burst from her palms. One hit Henry in the right shoulder, the other in the left knee. Blood and bone splattered through the hall, the stench of scorched flesh filling the air.
Wailing, he fell to the ground.
“Discutio,” Katherine said, aiming at a large table at the side. The wood shattered into splinters. “Motus.” With a wave of her hand, the wood flew through the air, forming a pile.
Katherine raised her arm toward the ceiling. “Traho,” she said and a beam from the roof descended, hitting the pile of splinters, standing upward in the center. Katherine focused her mind on the curtains, saying, “Motus,” and the rope holding the cloth unwove itself, sliding through the air like a snake.
In a moment, the rope caught the knight scrambling on the ground, and raised him, moving him atop the pile of splinters, tying him to the beam.
“You can’t do this, you monster,” Aisling screamed jumping from her chair, outstretching her arms to throw a not-incanted spell. Magic surged from her, chaotic, but directed at Katherine.
“Contra,” Katherine said, dissipating Aisling’s spell. She pushed her hand forward with an open palm. “Vi undam.” A push of pure force pinned Aisling back into her seat. “Vincula,” Katherine whispered and chains made of pure energy tied the princess to her chair. “Silentium,” Katherine added and the screaming died in the princess’s mouth.
Katherine turned toward Henry, who was helplessly tied to the pole. “Uro.” The splinters caught ablaze, fires reaching up Henry’s body. His wailing intensified, the smell of scorched flesh strengthening in the air.
For a good minute, Katherine watched him burn alive, pleased. No, she did not want to wed away her precious daughter. But such was the duty of a queen. From the three candidates, Raoul was most likely a bastard and an heir to a single region. Ricardo was good, but Spain just finished a lasting war against the Moors. His country would be a drag, and it would only drain her kingdom’s finances to rebuild the land.
