A Royal Marriage

by Rachelle Mccalla

  Gisela buried her face against his shoulder. “You were only upset because you feared for my safety?”

  “I fear for it still.” He clung to her, the fear of what could have happened locking his arms into place around her. He pinched his eyes shut and tried not to think about how his heart had plummeted within him when he’d turned to find her fallen in the dust.

  His feelings for her were far too strong. They hadn’t cooled in the slightest while he’d been at the border meeting with his brother.

  * * *

  Gisela held on to John’s shoulders and breathed in deep breaths of his comforting scent. He’d not let her hold on to him this long, not since her fever had been at its worst a week before, and she guessed he’d tear himself away at any moment. She clung to him and prayed for time to pass slowly.

  He feared for her safety. Well, of course, if she died that would entangle Lydia in an increasingly complicated political situation. But he hadn’t mentioned the political situation. And he didn’t hold her like a man who was thinking about politics.

  He held her as she’d never been held before. She knew it would be far too easy to feel more for this man than she ought. Perhaps her feelings were already inappropriately strong, given her unavoidable pending nuptials with Warrick. But the tournament had drained away her strength, and she couldn’t muster the will to pry herself away from him.

  “Princess—” his arms shifted slightly around her “—have I insulted you? My reaction was quite strong. All I could think of was—” he pulled back far enough to cup her cheek with one hand “—what if I’d hurt you? I’m sorry if my words insulted you. They weren’t intended to. Obviously you’re perfectly capable of defending yourself. I’ve never known a woman like you.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  King John groaned softly. He bent his head until his forehead nearly touched hers. Then he winced as though experiencing deep pain. “The only bad thing is that you’re—” His words broke off and he pulled away.

  “I’m what?”

  He balled his gloved hands into fists, then extended his fingers before fisting them again, grasping at the empty air as though the answer lay somewhere near, if only he could seize it without it slipping away.

  Gisela could see he was fighting a battle within himself. There was much she still didn’t understand about the kingdom of Lydia and their relationships with their neighbors. There was much she didn’t understand about King John, but she wanted so much to know him better. To ease the sorrow in his heart she’d seen in tiny glimpses. To repay, to whatever extent she could, the debt she owed him for saving her life.

  King John didn’t turn around. “You’re promised to Warrick, son of Garren.”

  “Yes.” She’d grown to resent the fact, but she couldn’t deny it.

  “Is there any chance you could peacefully annul the agreement?”

  Having recently wished that there was, Gisela let out a disillusioned laugh. “Hardly. Not without incurring the wrath of my father and quite a few prominent Illyrians.”

  “Then my feelings don’t matter.”

  Stunned by his words, Gisela didn’t even call after the king as he fled the room.

  * * *

  John didn’t go to the banquet. He was in no mood to face anyone, least of all his little sister or any of the courtiers who might ask him what had happened. He found Hilda hovering in the hallway outside Gisela’s suite and informed her that the princess needed rest, as well as food and drink.

  Then he stomped off to his own room, still chafing at all he’d said that he shouldn’t have.

  He flung off his leather fencing gloves. They landed on his dressing table, rattling it against the plastered stone wall. He sat and tugged off his boots.

  It didn’t matter that she was promised to another. Politically it mattered, yes, but that wasn’t the greatest impediment between them, no matter how he’d inferred so to the princess.

  He’d told himself for the past three years that he would not wed. He would not ask another woman to risk her life attempting to bear him a child. So really, it made precious little difference whether Gisela’s pledge to Warrick was breakable or not.

  He had no other arrangement to offer her.

  His heart squeezed as he heaved his heavy chain-mail jerkin over his aching shoulders. The image of her lying prone in the dust would not leave his mind. What if she’d died there? What if he’d lost her?

  “Dear Lord in heaven.” John sat and clutched his head in his hands as he prayed. “I did not ask to ever find love again. Why have You sent this woman to torture my wounded heart?” He panted, yearning to understand.

  There was no getting rid of Princess Gisela—not until her father sent a ship back for her, and that would still be another fortnight or two, at least. And there was no denying the intensity of what he felt for her.

  And there would be no acting on those feelings.

  “Dear Lord,” he prayed again, “if this is some trial, I do not see how I can succeed. Grant me strength.”

  * * *

  Gisela stared at the doorway through which John had disappeared and nearly jumped when Hilda walked in.

  “The king said you needed food and drink. Shall I fetch you some, or do you need my assistance here first?”

  “Food first, thank you, Hilda.”

  The woman left, and Gisela was alone with her troubled thoughts.

  What had the good king been saying? He’d asked about ending her agreement with Warrick. Why? For political reasons? Did it have to do with his father’s death or Rab the Raider or the message she’d sent to her father at Rome?

  Her heart burned inside her, denying each possibility as quickly as it occurred to her. No, she knew how it felt to be in his arms. She knew how much she’d longed to see him again and how her attention had been riveted on him once she’d found him sparring in the courtyard.

  Did he feel for her anything like what she felt for him? Neither of them could act on those feelings without encroaching on the terms of her father’s agreement with the Illyrians.

  If she’d had the strength to move, Gisela might have gone after John to learn what he’d meant by his comments. Because even if she was right—even if he wanted her as she wanted him—that didn’t begin to explain what he’d meant when he’d said that it didn’t matter.

  “I’ve brought your supper!” a feminine voice chirped from the doorway. It wasn’t Hilda’s voice.

  “Elisabette? I thought your brother asked you to host the banquet?”

  “You mean the rowdy rabble in the dining hall? They’re in such a state I feared for my well-being. No one will notice my absence, and if they do, they won’t care.” She placed a tray of food on the side table and moved it closer to the couch where Gisela reclined. “I believe this is the last of the dessert.”

  “It’s a large piece. Share it with me?” Gisela reached for the full cup instead and drank deeply, feeling her strength return somewhat as the fluid coursed through her. “Have you spoken with your brother?”

  “Not since he carried you out of the hall.” Bette picked delicately at the honey-soaked pastry. “Have you ever seen him in such a fit?”

  “No.” Gisela almost laughed that Bette would ask her such a question, when the girl obviously had been familiar with the king far longer than she had. “Have you?”

  “Hardly. I’ve seen him upset—he was livid with the Illyrians after Father’s death. But when he stopped fighting you and sank his sword into the soil, I thought my heart would stop.” Bette placed one hand upon her chest as though checking to be sure the organ was still going after all. “Do you know why he did it?”

  “He recognized me. He said he was afraid he might have injured me.”

  Elisabette stuck out her tongue and blew it dismissively. “He didn’
t injure anyone all day. Once he knew it was you, he could have simply been more careful. That wasn’t it at all.”

  Intrigued, Gisela plucked grapes from the large bunch Bette had brought her. “Then why?”

  The girl grinned. “I’m not sure I should tell.”

  “What do you know?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know anything for certain, only what I’ve observed in the way he acts around you, the look on his face when he saw you’d fallen in the piste.”

  “He was wearing a mask.”

  Elisabette dismissed her protest with a shake of her head. “His entire body language changed. He went from being furiously upset to, to...”

  “To what?” Gisela urged when the girl seemed to have trouble finding the right word.

  Bette looked at the ceiling with a wistful expression. “He looked as though someone had just pulled his heart from his chest.”

  “You’re being dramatic.”

  “Am I? Did you hear him in the great hall when he laid you by the fire? I know what he’s said—that if anything happens to you while you’re in his care, we could end up at war with the Illyrians or your father or both. But it wasn’t that kind of fear that burned in his eyes. I know the look he gets when he’s worried about war, and this was nothing like it.”

  Gisela’s heart thumped rapidly as she waited for Bette to explain further. She had her own suspicions about what had motivated John’s actions, but her suspicions were hardly objective, clouded as they were by her own very strong feelings. “What was it like, then?”

  “You’ll say I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I wouldn’t suggest such a thing. You know your brother far better than I do.”

  “Not that.” Bette stuck out a pouting lip and scowled at what remained of her baklava.

  “What then?”

  The younger woman seemed to wage a battle before she finally spoke. “I know you’re older than I am, but I’ve recently celebrated my eighteenth birthday. Most of my friends have married already. I’m not completely naive.” Something in the way she spoke suggested that she’d bottled up her secret for too long, and wanted desperately to share it with someone. Still, she held back.

  “I never thought you naive.” Gisela tried to encourage her.

  Bette placed the rest of her baklava on the tray and nibbled at her thumb nail indecisively. “You’ve got to promise not to tell John what I’m about to say. It cannot leave this room.”

  Unsure how she could make such a promise when she hadn’t yet heard Elisabette’s news, nonetheless she doubted the girl would speak at all without her solemn pledge.

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Elisabette’s story spilled out quickly, as though it had been bottled up under pressure and was ready to burst. “Before my father’s death, we used to travel past the mountains for festivals. We were on good terms with our Illyrian neighbors and our family got along quite well with the royal families of the neighboring kingdoms. Unbeknownst to my father or brother, I fell in love with an Illyrian prince. We pledged our hearts to one another the summer before my father’s death. Since then, we’ve exchanged notes by courier. I still love him, and he loves me, though I haven’t heard from him in many long months.”

  “Oh, Bette.”

  The girl continued. “I understand what love is—sometimes I think I understand it better than my brother. He’s run from it ever since his wife died. It’s been years ago, but he’s never looked at another woman twice.”

  Gisela’s heart felt as though it had been gripped in a vise. Was that the source of King John’s great sorrow? She could hardly breathe waiting for Bette to finish her account.

  “I shouldn’t presume to speak for my brother. It’s his story to tell. But you must understand that I know what I’m talking about. I know my brother, and I know love.”

  When the girl left off her story, Gisela finally sucked in a breath. “What are you saying?”

  “He hasn’t been this way since he fell in love with Dorcas. Then again, I don’t think he was ever this way.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Gisela knew well what her heart wanted the girl to be suggesting, but at the same time, her sensible self hoped Bette would deny it.

  “I think my brother has feelings for you.”

  “He can’t.”

  “I know what I’m talking about.”

  Gisela reached across the tray and took Bette by the hand. “I know you do. I trust you do. And I fear your appraisal of the situation may be right. But you know I’m promised to an Illyrian prince.”

  “Yes, I know. And that’s the other reason I wanted to tell you my tale. When you get to Illyria, do you think you could take a message to my prince? I haven’t heard from him in weeks and weeks, and I’m very worried. Perhaps you could initiate talks between his family and mine. We long to be together, but the current political situation makes that impossible.”

  It took Gisela a moment to process all that Elisabette said. The girl didn’t question that Gisela would soon wed an Illyrian, despite King John’s supposed feelings for her. “I will try to help you in whatever way I can. What is the name of your prince?”

  Bette stood and took a step toward the door, blushing at the thought of her love. She’d clearly said all she’d come to say, and now appeared ready to retreat, half embarrassed by sharing so much. “He’s a prince of the Dometian tribe. Warrick, son of Garren.”

  Gisela stared after Bette, but there was no calling the young woman back, not when she’d scampered off in such a hurry, and Gisela couldn’t find her voice anyway.

  Of course, the younger princess didn’t know the name of Gisela’s betrothed. Gisela had purposely not told her because of the connection between Warrick’s family and the man who’d killed Elisabette and John’s father, King Theodoric.

  Did Bette know about the connection between Warrick’s family and Rab the Raider? What would she think when she found out?

  Worse yet, what would she think when she learned that Gisela was pledged to marry her longtime love? Fear gripped Gisela. What if Warrick sent a message to Elisabette confessing his betrothal to Gisela? What if Bette learned she was going to lose her love to the very woman who’d promised to help her unite her to him?

  “Oh, dear God in Heaven.” Gisela pinched her eyes shut and prayed. “Help me, please.”

  * * *

  John lay awake for a long time, regretting that he’d spoken aloud words best left buried. Why had he brought up Gisela’s coming marriage? Why had he asked her about breaking it off? Legally and politically he knew she ought to make haste to Warrick, be married and gone from Lydia, out of his castle and out of his thoughts.

  But would she really be gone from his thoughts? He hadn’t managed to forget her yet. Outwardly the situation seemed so simple. She wasn’t his and he had no intention of marrying. They weren’t to be together. Simple.

  And yet, inside his heart everything had gotten turned around backward.

  He rolled from his bed and knelt at the side, his hands held tight together in prayer. “Dear Lord, why?” He couldn’t put into words exactly what he was feeling. He didn’t understand it himself. But surely God understood. Surely God knew what to do. “What am I to do?” he pleaded. “Show me what to do.”

  John had his eyes pinched shut when an oddly familiar fluttering sound distracted him. He quit his prayers and rose to the open window, where the moonlight cast a shadow over the figure perched there.

  “Fledge.” He greeted the bird before he realized his falcon wasn’t alone. Another falcon landed on the windowsill beside his falcon.

  His leather gloves still lay on the side table where he left them. He pulled one on and extended his arm to the bird. “Ah, Fledge, you’ve returned to me.” He ran a hand down the bird’s smooth feathe
rs and determined that she had no injury. She was no worse off after her absence.

  A sense of peace cut through his despair. Everything in his kingdom and in his heart was in upheaval, but his bird had returned to him. God was faithful. God watched over sparrows—it said so in the Holy Scriptures. Surely God watched over kings, as well.

  John looked up into the starry heavens. “I don’t understand,” he confessed, “but if You lead me, I will follow.”

  * * *

  Grateful for the exhaustion that helped her forget her troubles in sleep, Gisela nonetheless awoke all too cognizant of the distressing circumstances in which she’d found herself.

  And Hilda was missing.

  As Gisela splashed on rose water and put on a suitable gown, she thought back to the night before. If Hilda had ever returned after she’d left to fetch Gisela some food, she’d gone again while Gisela was sleeping. What had distracted the faithful maid from her usual devotion to her duties?

  With her long length of braid coiled within a silken net, Gisela set off in search of Hilda or breakfast and hoped to find them both together.

  A visit to the kitchen yielded no maid nor any clues to where the woman might be. However, the cook obligingly offered Gisela her choice of breakfasts, and she continued her search munching on a pastry filled with chunks of apple.

  Having always been a fan of high towers and the views one could see from them, Gisela navigated through the hallways, checking her position periodically through the wide-open windows until she found the winding stairs that led to the highest tower.

  She didn’t expect to find Hilda there, but since she’d had her breakfast she had no more need of the maid. And she’d been so busy planning the tournament that she’d yet to fully explore the castle. The view from the tower would help her to understand the layout of King John’s fortress, as well as the lay of the land. Perhaps she might even spot Hilda from that vantage point.

  “Delightful,” she whispered to herself, swallowing the last morsel and hoisting her skirts as she climbed the winding stone stairs.

  The steps circled around and around until she was nearly dizzy. Narrow windows lit the space, but they were only wide enough to shoot arrows through, and allow a little light in. The stone walls were far too thick to permit her to see anything through the arrow slits.