The Reluctant Princess

by Christine Rimmer

  She stared at his mouth. She was thinking, How can he be telling me it’s over when it’s hardly begun?

  How could anything so wrong be happening?

  And where had her anger gone? It had left her, completely, just melted away. She missed it. Anger was so much better than this sad, empty feeling. “You should have told me last night—that it could never go anywhere, that last night was all we’d have.”

  “No. What I should have done was to send you away. But I didn’t.”

  “And now everything’s changed.”

  “Nothing is changed. I’ll do what I have been ordered to do. I’ll take you to your father.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll ask for three weeks’ leave.”

  Her throat closed up on her. She swallowed to make it relax. “Three weeks—that’s how long I plan to visit.”

  “That’s right.”

  It hurt, just to look at him and to know that if she reached out to him, he would step back. She stared past his shoulder, at the boats on the water with their white, white sails. But the sun was so bright.

  She blinked and sun dogs danced at the corners of her eyes. “I feel…so much for you.”

  “You’re young. What you feel will pass.”

  “Oh, please. That’s a lame one and you know it. How old or young I am has nothing to do with how deeply I feel or how long it will last.”

  He stood so still and straight. She knew he was only waiting for her to give up this talk that he saw as pointless, to go and get dressed and get her things together so they could leave.

  “I can’t…reach you, Hauk. Not if you won’t reach back.”

  “I can’t reach back.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. We’re not the same, you and I. You see possibilities where I know there are none. We are what we are—and I am not the one for you.”

  “Only because you won’t let yourself be. You won’t give us a chance, won’t even let yourself try.”

  “There’s a line from an old Norse poem, The length of my life and the day of my death were fated long ago.”

  “That may be. But it’s what you’ll do with your life, however long or short it may be, that we’re talking about right now.”

  He chided gently, “Such a clever, clever tongue you have.”

  “I don’t care what you say. You can reach back. You simply choose not to.”

  “All right. Have it your way. I choose not to.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was early evening when they reached Gullandria, though the day, as yet, showed little sign of dimming. The flight attendant told Elli that at the summer equinox, which was a month and a half away, the sun would stay above the horizon for close to twenty hours, gradually fading into a long twilight.

  “On a clear night in Gullandrian high summer,” the attendant explained, “it never gets dark between sunset and sunrise.”

  They approached the island across the endless blue of the sea. At first, it all blurred together. Elli saw the rough shape of it, patches of green and black, puddles and fissures of deepest blue that were lakes and the major fjords. Then, as they got close, she had her first view of Lysgard, the capital, a harbor city low on the western shore, where the land curved sharply inward on its way to the southernmost tip.

  As they flew in, Elli saw a jumble of steep-roofed compact houses that seemed to crowd each other on the fingers of land extending into the cobalt waters of the harbor. The close-packed dwellings clung to the green hillsides and perched above the steep black rock walls of Lysgard Fjord.

  The attendant joined her at the window, pointing out the gold dome of the Grand Assembly, where freeman and jarl alike met to argue law and decide on matters of importance to the public at large. “The Grand Assembly is similar to the British Parliament, which, of course, owes its beginnings to the earliest assembly of its type—the Althing, where the Vikings of Iceland once gathered to make their laws.”

  She made special mention of the tall, proud spires of the largest churches. “Many think we worship the old Norse gods. But we say that we learn from them, that we take to heart what our earliest cultural myths have to show us. We in Gullandria are good Christians, of course—and look there.” She pointed at the magnificent silver castle with its turrets and spires and glittering jewel-paned windows that crowned a jut of land above the city. Parkland like a green blanket fell away beneath it.

  Elli found the sight enchanting. “It’s like something from a fairy tale.”

  “Yes. Everyone says the same thing the first time they see His Majesty’s largest palace. Isenhalla was built in the sixteenth century of rare silver Gullandrian slate. The slate has splendid reflective properties. It shines in the sunlight almost as if it were carved of ice.”

  The urge came on Elli as it had several times during the flight, to turn in her chair, to ask Hauk some eager, touristy question. So how’s the fishing here? I understand it’s always been one of the major industries. Or What about the oil refineries? Where are they? From what I’ve read, oil is the main export now….

  She did no such thing. Once or twice since they boarded, she’d dared to look at him. He’d stared back, unblinking, as if he were looking right through her. She’d felt like a naughty child at the gates of Buckingham Palace, trying to get one of those expressionless guards in a tall furry hat to crack a smile.

  He was one hundred percent the king’s warrior again. The man who had held her and kissed her and brought her to the heights of ecstasy the night before might never have been.

  Her father wasn’t there to welcome her when they touched down. He’d sent an entourage, though. She stepped off the plane and there they all were, including a color guard of ten proud soldiers in the red-and-black uniforms of the Gullandrian army. They carried the Gullandrian flag, which showed a red dragon coiled around a red tree on an ebony ground. The tree had thick, gnarled roots. Elli knew it represented Yggdrasill, the guardian tree of Norse mythology that anchored the cosmos, growing through all the nine worlds, from the underworlds up through Midgard, where men and giants walked, and on into the upper worlds of the gods and the light elves. There were other flags whipping in the wind, foremost among them the Thorson banner with its lightning bolt and hammer.

  A small brass band played the national anthem and an aide stepped forward to read a long, flowery welcome speech from a device that rolled open like a modern-day version of a parchment scroll. Several yards away, a hundred or so Gullandrian citizens cheered and waved small flags, calling out, “Princess Elli, Princess Elli! Welcome! Welcome home!” There were reporters, too, and a news crew with the camera rolling. Guards kept them all behind a temporary barrier.

  Elli played her part, waving and smiling and calling out, “Thank you! Oh, thank you!”

  A limousine, more banners flying, rolled toward them. When it stopped, the aide who had read the welcome speech stepped forward and opened the door. With a final wave, Elli ducked inside.

  The aide hustled in behind her. Elli looked back at the plane as they drove away, unable to stop herself from hoping for one last glimpse of Hauk. Maybe he’d be disembarking now she was safely in the car and on her way.

  She saw the soldiers and the flags whipping in the wind and the people still cheering and waving. But no Hauk.

  A black car with black-tinted windows rolled in behind them. Elli faced front and saw another car perhaps twenty feet ahead. Maybe Hauk was in one of them….

  “May I say, Princess Elli, that it is an honor to escort you to the palace of His Majesty, your father.” The aide, sitting down the long leather seat from her, was a tall, slender man in a dark, expensive-looking suit, attractive in a slightly fussy way.

  “Thank you.” He’d introduced himself a minute ago. And already she’d forgotten his name. She’d been thinking of Hauk, of last night, thinking that she couldn’t believe it; that it couldn’t be possible she would never see him again, never speak with him, never match
her wits against his determination—and never, ever feel his kiss.

  The aide looked at her hopefully. She put a little effort into recalling his name. Something beginning with prince. But then, in Gullandria, all the men’s names started with prince—as long they were jarl and legitimate, anyway.

  “It is only a short ride, under twenty kilometers, to Isenhalla,” said Prince Whatever.

  Elli gave the man a vague smile and looked out the window and wondered what Hauk might be doing now.

  Three black Volvo sedans had been waiting at the edge of the airstrip when the royal jet landed. Two carried armed guards assigned to accompany the princess’s limousine to the palace.

  While Her Highness was busy listening to that endless welcome speech, Hauk had slipped off the plane and into the third car. Thus, at that moment he was on the way to the palace himself, well ahead of the royal limousine.

  Perhaps the king would wish to speak with him today. Perhaps not.

  If not, Hauk would busy himself in the stables. He was good with the stocky, white longhaired horses for which his country was famed, and he often helped with their training. But whatever he did—train horses or men, work up a sweat in the training yard himself, gamble with off-duty soldiers from the palace guard—until the king summoned him to hear his report, Hauk’s real job would be to wait. When the king did send for him, he would make use of the audience to request leave.

  Hauk sat in the back seat and stared out the window at the emerald-green fields and the karavik—hardy fat-tailed Gullandrian sheep—grazing on the slopes of the hills. To the north, the Black Mountains, gateway to the Vildelund, loomed tall and dark and capped with snow.

  They were reaching the outskirts of Lysgard when Hauk’s contact device, which he’d stuck in his boot for the flight, began vibrating. He asked the driver for a phone and placed the call to his king.

  “Your Majesty. Hauk speaking. Her Highness, Princess Elli, is at this moment on her way to you.”

  “Yes, I know. She is well, in good spirits, from what my observers at the airport have told me.”

  “Yes, sire. She is well.”

  “I commend you, Hauk.”

  “I live only to serve, Your Majesty.”

  “I would have a word with you before I welcome my daughter in person. Come immediately to my private audience room.”

  When Hauk entered the royal chamber, King Osrik stood before the wide diamond-paned window. He stared out at the capital city below and the jewel-blue waters of the harbor beyond. It was 2100—nine in the evening American time—and outside the long twilight had begun. Also in the room, but in the corner near a bust of Odin, was a tall, gaunt figure with wise gray eyes, thinning white hair and a gray beard. He was the king’s Grand Counselor, Prince Medwyn Greyfell. Prince Greyfell, who was second only to the king in power and influence, granted Hauk a small nod. In respectful response, Hauk put his fist to his heart and dipped his head.

  The king turned from the window, knowing dark eyes warm with welcome. “Hauk. Hello.” He held out the hand on which the ring of state gleamed.

  In four strides, Hauk had crossed the big room. He swept to one knee and pressed his lips to the huge bloodred ruby that crowned the ring.

  “Rise,” said the king. “Sit with me.” With a sweep of his hand, he gestured at two red velvet chairs with carved ebony arms, one on a small dais, the other placed lower, on the floor.

  Hauk knew how to sit before his king, how to orchestrate the act of sitting, so that his liege always stayed slightly above him.

  “There,” said the king, once they had taken the chairs. He was smiling.

  King Osrik had a good smile. It was open and confident, a smile that made people trust him. He was tall—not as tall as Hauk, but taller than most. His brows were dark and thick, his black hair streaked with silver. A handsome man, still strong and straight in his early fifties. Yes, there was sadness in those dark eyes sometimes. He had, after all, lost his greatest hope, his two sons. But he was a wise ruler and he knew that in front of his subjects, too much display of sadness spoke of weakness. And though a king no longer went a-Viking or carried a sword into battle as in days gone by, even in modern times, a king must never be thought weak.

  “Tell me of my daughter,” the king said, while from the corner the Grand Counselor listened and watched.

  Hauk had a little speech prepared. “My lord, she is all a father could wish for in a daughter, all a king could wish for in a princess. Quick of mind and good at heart. Strong and beautiful. Raised American, of course. But she has studied the great myths. She has some background in our ways.” Not as much as she should have, Hauk was thinking, though of course, he didn’t say any such thing.

  The king chuckled. “Quicker of mind than we had anticipated, I think.”

  Hauk dipped his head in acknowledgment of those words. “She drives a good bargain, sire.”

  “And with the queen, how did that go?” The king’s smile had vanished.

  “Her Majesty was…not pleased, that Her Highness would visit her father. But Her Highness held firm.”

  “She looked well?”

  It took Hauk a moment to realize the king referred to his runaway queen. “Yes, sire. Very well.”

  The king insisted on hearing the details of the meeting with the queen. Hauk trotted them out, telling the story as briefly as possible, from the housekeeper’s initial hostility, through the queen’s distress at the news that the princess would travel to Gullandria, on to the calls to Princess Liv and Princess Brit, through the grim meal that he, the queen and the princess had shared, capping it all off with the queen’s final acceptance of the inevitable.

  “And it was Tuesday night, that my daughter went to the queen?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “She had that much more to do, in America, that she couldn’t leave until the last minute we’d agreed on?”

  “Sire, from my observation, after her visit with the queen on Tuesday night, all was in readiness for the princess to leave California.”

  “Yet she lingered there?”

  “She insisted you had agreed she could stay in California until Thursday and she was not leaving until then.”

  “And what did you make of that—of her stalling?”

  Hauk hesitated. He never felt comfortable when the king asked for interpretations of the motives of others. He always preferred to stick with the facts—especially now, when they were talking of the woman he had touched in ways that one such as he should never so much as dream of, when he felt certain that any moment he would betray himself as he had betrayed his king. That the king would sense the turmoil within him and want to know what was bothering him.

  And that when the king began questioning him more pointedly, he’d answer bluntly, admit that he’d touched the king’s daughter intimately, that all he longed for was to do it again.

  He’d throw it all over—the life he’d built, all he’d worked so hard to earn, the bastard name he’d sought to make whole and proud. He’d throw it over because right now it all meant less than nothing to him. Right now it was empty as wheat chaff after threshing, of so little substance it was easily blown away by the wind.

  Right now, he could almost open his mouth and confess what he’d done, redeem a shred of his tattered honor by taking whatever punishment the king saw fit to mete out.

  But the thought of her kept him from that.

  He couldn’t say what it might cost her if her father learned where she’d spent the previous night. Perhaps little. Perhaps much.

  At the very least, she would be shamed, diminished in her father’s eyes. That he did care about. That made it imperative he keep the truth to himself.

  The king sighed. “Ah, Hauk. Never mind.” He spoke more briskly. “So. You left California yesterday morning, as agreed. And then a storm dragged you out of the sky and held you overnight in the city of Boston.”

  Hauk kept his eyes down and ordered the sudden, stunning erotic images out of h
is mind. “Yes, sire.”

  “But at last, here you are.” The king rose, Hauk along with him. “Well done, my warrior.”

  Hauk stepped back and saluted. The interview was almost over. He’d made it through without throwing his life away. The only thing left was to request leave.

  The king spoke first. “A week from tomorrow is May Fair.” There were three major fairs in the warm months: May Fair, Midsummer’s Eve and Summer’s End. “This year, in honor of my daughter, I’m planning a special celebration. War games and displays of horsemanship in the morning and afternoon. And along with the battle games and horse races, the usual festival, with music and poetry, games of chance and a bazaar. And then a feast. And then, at midnight, we’ll set a ship ablaze in my daughter’s honor.

  “Notice has been sent out to all the fighting clubs.” Gullandrian men liked to form fighting clubs. They would practice the old, wild ways of battle, and often stage fight shows at the local fairs. “As my warrior,” said the king, “you will fight in my name.”

  There was only one response. “Your Majesty honors me.”

  “As you bring honor to our name. That is all, then.”

  Hauk hesitated again, unsure when he’d get another chance to ask for some time away from the palace. He was in a special position in regards to his orders. He took them only from the king.

  The king gave him his opening. “You have more you wish to say, Hauk?”

  “A request, Your Majesty.”

  “Name it.”

  “I’d like to take some leave, sire.”

  “When?”

  “Right after I represent Your Majesty in the games next week.”

  “Is there some pressing reason you’ll be going?”

  He should have thought up a good story in advance. But he wasn’t an effective liar, never had been. And lying always galled him, anyway. “No, my lord. I’d merely like some time to myself.”

  “No…personal difficulties?”

  “None. Just holiday leave, my lord.”

  “Will a month do it?”