by John Moore
“Yes, sire. But the word below stairs is that you and Logan are the only serious contenders. The nobility of Deserae still favors Lord Logan, but popular opinion seems to be swinging your way.”
“Those old guys always back the military. Well, keep your ears open, Winslow.” They descended another broad staircase, standing aside to let two women in wide gowns pass. Kevin picked up the thread of conversation again. “Truth to tell, Winslow, this isn’t just politics. I personally would like to have this match with the Princess.”
“Why is that, sire?”
“Well for one thing, she’s really beautiful.”
“Every princess in the Twenty Kingdoms is beautiful, Your Highness. It is one of the unexplained mysteries of our land. I have never seen an unattractive princess.”
“Okay, but she’s also about my age. I mean, look what happened to Prince Frederick. The family refused to let him marry until he was thirty, and then he was betrothed to a six-year-old girl.”
“That was ten years ago, sire. Now he is the most envied middle-aged man in his kingdom.”
The two men turned into a wider and even more crowded hallway. They followed the current of people to their destination but paused at the entrance to the grand ballroom.
A twenty-piece orchestra was playing at full volume, but the conversational hubbub still rose above the music. A thousand candles, each flame reflected a hundred times more from gleaming crystal chandeliers, filled the massive ballroom with a bright golden glow. Within the crowd a constant glitter of reflection dazzled the eye, as necklaces of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds flashed from the ladies’ necks. From the men’s shoulders swung capes of silk, velvet, and fur. All of Deserae’s nobility, and the cream of its merchant population, flowed around the room in a large, slow circuit, shaking hands, chatting, making introductions, forming into knots and groups and cliques, then breaking up again to join the main flow, like a stream flowing into a circular pond. Servants bearing silver trays of canapés and full wineglasses smoothly entered the whirlpool, and other servants with empty trays exited just as smoothly. And in the center of the flow were the four other men who had traveled from their respective countries to compete for the hand of Princess Rebecca.
“Bigelow, Raymond, Harkness, and there is Lord Logan,” said Kevin, looking over the crowd. “That’s him with Lord Hepplewhit and Baron Ashbury. He brought along some of his Black Guards. Bigelow left his entourage behind, I see. Did our other diplomats reply to my message, Winslow?”
“Yes, sire. You received a note from their excellencies Berry and Wainright this morning.”
“And what did it say?”
“It said that Deserae is proud of its orchards but produces little wine.”
“Good. What else?”
“Principal employment lies in sheep and lumber. Not surprisingly, most of the manufacturing is in wool cloth and carved wood. They also weave flax. And there’s some tin mining.”
“Sheep,” said Kevin reflectively. “Hmmm. Okay, I may need you. Wait for me here.”
He gave his invitation to the doorman, who announced him—not that anyone was listening, or could hear above the music and the chatter. It took the better part of an hour for Prince Kevin to reach the center of the room, for every step meant another round of greetings, bows, handshakes, and exchanges of pleasantries. The Prince never wavered from his course, although to the other guests it appeared that he had no direction at all, but merely by chance the press of the crowd had nudged him into the royal center. Indeed, he seemed almost surprised when he turned around and found himself facing Prince Bigelow.
“Samuel,” he said, bowing slightly. “Good to see you again. You’re looking well.”
“As yourself, Kevin.” Bigelow did not bow or smile. He was a good-looking young man, a little heavyset but powerful, normally quite friendly and personable. Three weeks ago he had been considered a solid choice. Now he was tired of the whole game and ready to go home. The Lords of Deserae had narrowed the field to two. Bigelow was sufficiently well informed to know he was out of the running.
“Raymond, Harkness,” said the Prince, shaking hands with each of them. Raymond was a thin, weedy sort, with a scraggly beard, who always seemed to be daydreaming. He had never been a serious contender and was probably just there for diplomatic reasons. He had a glass of wine in each hand and a pipe in his mouth. Prince Harkness had wide blue eyes and long golden hair, and every adolescent girl in the kingdom thought he was absolutely adorable. But he was also three years younger than Kevin and two years younger than the Princess. Kevin knew the Princess objected to marrying a younger man.
Which left Logan of Angostura, son of the Lord High Chancellor and a general in the Angosturan army. He was tall, even taller than Kevin, who was by no means short. Square-jawed, muscular, with broad shoulders—and the epaulets on his jacket made them seem even broader. He normally traveled in the company of highly trained commandos called the Black Guards. Black Jack Logan, his men called him. It was easy to see why. He had black eyes and black hair, cut short to keep the curls under control, and a thick and precisely trimmed black beard. Brighter-than-regulation gold braid covered the sleeves of his black wool uniform, and a double row of medals stretched across his left breast. He wore a collarless shirt with a black silk cravat knotted around his neck, in the military style, and he wore a military sword. His greeting to Kevin was curt, and the dislike showed plainly in his face. Logan had made it clear from the start that he wanted this marriage, and he regarded each competing suitor the way a soldier regards the enemy, as an obstacle to be destroyed or circumvented by the most expedient means. Prince Kevin, for his part, gave no indication that he was in a competition at all. He gave the soldier a cheery smile and respectful bow.
“As I was saying, the proper disposition of troops along the border is paramount in the defense of a country like Deserae.” Logan had been discoursing on military preparedness. He picked up the thread of conversation again. “You don’t want to station all your forces on the outposts. Especially in mountainous terrain like yours. You want to keep troops where they can be rapidly shifted to cover breakthroughs. If you stop them in the passes, they’ll only pull back and try again. To destroy an enemy’s army, you have to lure it onto the plains, where you can maneuver.”
Bigelow looked bored. Harkness had his eyes on a girl in a low-cut gown. But two members of Deserae’s ruling council were following Logan’s words carefully. Baron Ashbury was white-haired, elderly, and stout, and Lord Hepplewhit was white-haired, elderly, and thin. “Lord Logan has been telling us of some of his victories,” Ashbury explained to Kevin.
“Of which he has many,” Kevin said. “Your reputation has spread even to my own country, Lord Logan.” Logan barely acknowledged his words.
“I was thinking that his is the sort of leadership we need in Deserae,” said Hepplewhit to Kevin. “Consider our situation. Bordering on the frontier, we get all sorts of nasties coming over the mountains. And our location makes us a temptation for other countries with an eye to expand.”
It was true. Deserae had a strategic location between two major rivers, and the easiest pass through the northern mountains ended at its border. “Rassendas has many experienced generals. My father, of course, is eager to form a treaty of mutual defense with Deserae. Under the right circumstances.” Kevin added this last bit offhandedly, not making a point of what those conditions were. Logan glared at him anyway.
“Wine, yes, thank you,” said Bigelow. He was talking to a white-jacketed steward, who proffered him a tray. He swirled the glass of deep purple liquid and tasted it. “Good wine, this.”
“Imported from Rassendas,” said Hepplewhit, as each of the other men took a glass. “You don’t care for it, Lord Logan?”
“It is adequate for cooking, perhaps.” Logan put his glass, barely tasted, back on the tray. “I’m afraid that the wines of Rassendas cannot compare to the full-bodied wines of Angostura. Like many of the products of Rassenda
s, they tend to be immature and weak.”
There was certainly insult in this. The group fell silent, a small pocket of quiet in the surrounding conversational hubbub, waiting to hear how Kevin would respond. Bigelow especially let his eyes flick to Kevin’s waist, noted that the Prince was not wearing a sword, and gave a speculative glance at the heavy knob of his walking stick. Logan’s Black Guards leaned forward. But Kevin answered cheerfully enough. “Can’t argue with you there. I don’t know much about wine—don’t really care for it myself.”
“You prefer beer?” said Bigelow.
“Beer’s all right, Sam. I really prefer cider, when I can get it.”
“Cider? Really?” Ashbury pushed forward. “Prince Kevin, you must try some of our ciders.” He grabbed Kevin by the arm and led him across the room. “You’re a cider man, eh? I myself have extensive orchards on my estate. I supply many of the breweries in Deserae. In all modesty, I must say that my ciders are—well, I’ll let you decide for yourself.”
“You have orchards? Really?” Part of the crowd, seeing the Prince leave, followed them.
“Oh yes. Apples, cherries, plums, pears—now here.” Ashbury let him out a side door, into an antechamber where a number of barrels were stacked. Stewards were filling glasses and setting them on trays. The Baron ran his free hand over the barrels. “Ah, here we go. This is one of mine. We keep the best for ourselves and ship the rest. And the King, of course. We supply the King with our best and sell the rest. Now, wait until you taste it. Waiter! A clean glass for the Prince, if you please.”
“Oh, not a glass,” said Kevin. “I always think cider tastes best when drunk from an honest wooden mug.”
There was a murmur of assent from the gathered men. “Quite right,” said a tall man, moving up from the back. He had close-cropped gray hair and waved a wooden stein above his head.
“Lord Tripple,” said Kevin.
“A mug of cider, that’s what the Prince needs. Grindsey, where’s that mug I brought—ah, here we go. Here you are, Timberline. Put your lips to this.”
He shoved a wrapped object into Kevin’s hands. Kevin unwound the cloth cover and examined it carefully. It was a wooden tankard, carved from oak in deep relief, then inlaid with cherry, walnut, rosewood, and curly maple. The elaborate hunting scene pictured on the side held at least two dozen figures, so delicately fashioned that a distinct expression clearly showed on each tiny face. “This is beautiful. Really a work of art.”
“Tut,” said Tripple. “A modest enough little gift, I assure you. It’s always a pleasure to meet a man who appreciates fine wood. I can’t tolerate metal tankards—they set my teeth on edge. Now my wood-carvers—they did the doors of our chapel, you must stop by and see it—did this all out of local woods. I keep a wide selection of hardwoods growing on my land. Cut one down, plant two more, that’s the key to careful forest management.”
“Let me put some cider in that for you,” said the Baron, passing it to a waiter.
“Excuse me, my lords,” said a steward. They all looked at him. “I beg pardon for interrupting, my lords, but His Majesty the King was most insistent that our guests be presented.”
“Of course,” said Lord Tripple. He motioned for Kevin to follow the steward, then took up a pace behind him. Baron Ashbury waited until Kevin’s tankard was full, then fell in step with Lord Tripple. Back in the Grand Ballroom, Kevin saw Raymond waiting before a pair of large French doors that fronted a small balcony. Bigelow appeared out of the crowd dragging a reluctant Harkness, who had a string of young women trailing him like a wake. The three men gazed outside with a sense of weary duty. Kevin came up beside Lord Hepplewhit, giving him an inquiring look. Hepplewhit stepped to one side, allowing Kevin to see out a neighboring window. Sixteen feet below were the castle’s front gardens. Quite a crowd had gathered there. Kevin estimated it was over a thousand people.
“Commoners from the city,” said Hepplewhit. “And the surrounding villagers. They’re all eager to see the men who are courting the Ice . . .” He cleared his throat. “Yes, our beloved princess. There’s been a lot of excitement over the past few weeks. So much visiting royalty in town, and a wedding coming up. The city has been abuzz with gossip. His Majesty decided to open up the gardens for this evening. If you could each step out and wave, perhaps say a few words?”
Lord Logan was already outside. “I’d be delighted,” said Kevin.
“I’m sure you know the drill. They just want to see you lads. You know, something to tell their friends and children. Some of them have come a long way.”
“The Princess is popular with her people?”
“Oh yes. Well, I wouldn’t say popular. But admired, in a way. His Majesty, of course, is regarded with great respect by the commoners. And he returns that respect.”
Bigelow examined Kevin’s tankard. “Clever of you to bring this along, Kevin.”
“Why is that, Sam?”
“Well, no princess wants to marry a man with an ugly mug.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Logan finished speaking. Kevin couldn’t hear the exact words. He could tell from the tone that the speech was aggressive and militaristic. The crowd gave him a round of applause.
Bigelow took his place on the balcony. Logan stepped inside. “Tiresome rabble,” he said.
“I quite agree,” said Harkness. “There’s something a tad degrading about having to pander to the great unwashed.”
“Well, noblesse oblige,” said Raymond. “We all have our roles to play.” They watched Bigelow speak. He was generating laughter from the crowd.
“There are some good-looking babes out there, though.” Harkness flipped his hair back.
“I should think they’d have better things to do with their time then to pry their noses into our affairs,” said Logan. He looked around irritably. “Where the hell has Timberline got to?”
Bigelow had just stepped inside. He waved a hand toward the balcony. “He’s down there.”
“What!” said Logan. There was a round of polite shoving and shuffling as all the suitors, except Bigelow, sought to get out onto the small balcony. Tripple, Ashbury, and Hepplewhit crowded behind them. Logan was the first to reach the balustrade and look down. “Now what is he doing?”
Left to himself in the ballroom, Bigelow smiled. “Working the crowd,” he murmured. “Working the crowd. You know,” he told a waiter, “I believe I’ll have a mug of that cider myself.”
Winslow hurriedly followed Kevin into the garden. The Prince of Rassendas was already surrounded, almost lost to sight in the press of people. Winslow noted with appreciation that they had cleaned up and were wearing their best clothes—apparently entering the Royal Gardens counted as a special occasion. Kevin was wading through the crowd, slapping the backs of the men, squeezing the hands of the women, patting the heads of the children. Thankfully, no one actually gave him a baby to kiss, although Winslow was sure the Prince would kiss one if he had to.
It was something he had learned from his father. Winslow had been there to hear it once. The King of Rassendas had been in his dressing room. “No monarch can rule effectively without the respect of the people,” he told the young prince. “Nor can the Lords. You can’t lead them against their will. Get support from the bottom, and the Lords will go with the crowd.”
Kevin nodded. King Eric had gone back to trying on black turtleneck sweaters. “How do you think these look with my shades?”
It was clear that the Prince was following this strategy now, garnering support from the bottom up. And it seemed to be working. Everyone the Prince touched left with a smile. “He seems a right good sort,” one florid-faced man told Winslow. “I think he’d make a fine husband for our princess.”
“Yes, I think so, too,” the valet replied. He pushed his way toward the Prince, finally getting close enough to hear Kevin speak with a man in a rough leather jacket.
“Came all this way to see a prince,” the man was saying. “I told her not to e
xpect too much, but she insisted. I thought you’d be up on the balcony. I told her we’d just be waving to you from a distance. Now here you are, and she won’t say a word.” He looked over his shoulder. “Come on now, Emma darling. Don’t be rude. Come out and say hello to His Highness.”
Hiding behind the man’s leg was a small girl. For a moment she peeped out from under his coat, offering a tentative smile, wide dark eyes, and hair tied back with a new ribbon. Then she ducked behind her father again. The Prince got down on one knee, so his face was almost level with her own.
“She gets shy, sometimes,” said the man, stroking her hair. “Then once she gets to know you, she’s a regular little chatterbox, she is.” He gently pushed the girl out in front of him. “Emma, show His Highness what you brought.”
Reluctantly, the girl came forward, and Kevin could see she was holding a small, earthenware crock in her tiny hands. The top was covered with a piece of clean cloth, tied around the rim with string. Suddenly she thrust it at the Prince, and as soon as he took it, she turned back to her father and buried her face in his jacket.
“It’s mint jelly,” said the man. “She made it herself. With a little help from her mum, isn’t that right, Emma?” The girl hugged him tighter and made no reply. “We thought we’d be leaving it for you. Didn’t think we’d actually be talking to you.”
“Thank you, Emma. I love mint jelly,” said the Prince.
He stood back up. “Especially with my favorite meal, roast lamb.”
“You like lamb? I raise sheep myself.”
“Really?” said Kevin.
And here Winslow noticed that the man was wearing a shearling jacket and the pin of a minor guild official. It was the sort of thing that the Prince would pick up on immediately.
“As a matter of fact, Your Highness, our annual guild picnic is coming up. Now if you like roast lamb . . .” He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Of course, no doubt you’re used to eating fancy foods, but if you’d care to drop by and say a few words . . .”
