NEW short fiction in progress:
Having a ball! New territory- so far this is shaping up like a (dark) Princess Brider:
A harsh winter had ravaged the landscape, leaving little more than tracts of hard-packed ice impaled by bare stumps, set stark and wretched against a brooding sky. The bleakness was alarming but strangely familiar, echoing her heart’s melancholy with sublime poetry. Adolescence had come without warning, isolating Kaitlin Spencer as much or more than the relentlessly churning storms, making her a stranger to her own impulses. Worse, she’d been holed up for weeks in a tiny, dilapidated cottage just inside the palace walls with her parents, also strangers. She’d spoken to them only when inevitable. This was her first outing since the sun had peeked sheepishly between walls of gray, illuminating a single patch of snow. She’d been surveying the surrounding terrain on horseback for mere moments when Puck lost his footing on the slickness, throwing her and bolting into the shadowy gullet of the bare-limbed forest that reared up behind the palace. She rose, dusted herself with stiff, frozen fingers, and ignoring the throbbing in the hip on which she’d landed, started after her impertinent steed. “Puck!” She cried into the hollowness. The mysterious dark swallowed her velvety tones instantly, just as tangles of wretched limbs strangled all light at a certain distance. She could hear the clopping of hooves on randomly strewn rocks not far ahead; he hadn’t gone far. It wasn’t like him to be spooked, and even less so, disobedient. Soon he’d return and eat carrots from her outstretched palm. “Puck!” She called again, to combat the dread that seemed to hang over the place more and more the deeper she penetrated. The cloud cover filtered the sun like a blanket, but the crisscrossing limbs rendered light even more muddled and confusing here in the forest, making it impossible to tell the time of day. She’d left the palace grounds only moments before, but suddenly felt hours could have passed, or days, or weeks. She called a third time, but the sound of her own voice was scarcely recognizable, edged as it was with panic. She pursued the resounding clatter of hooves, her own overtones mingling with the gentle cacophony. But suddenly there was a third sound, weaving its rich, melodious baritone between the more percussive, staccato lines like a shimmering thread. It was sweetly seductive and captivating all at once, transforming the barren glen into a magical tapestry. Kaitlin found herself entangled in its weave, tugged along weightlessly by the shimmering thread of a voice, helpless to resist even if she’d wanted to. Puck became an afterthought or a distant memory, so hypnotic was the effect. And there, emerging from darkness and centered in the tapestry like a perfectly embroidered tableau, stood the source of the unearthly melody. Framed by an ashlar bridge that spanned a shimmering rivulet, bathed in dapples of golden light—the few that dared penetrate the sheath of darkness—stood the most beautiful youth Kaitlin had ever laid eyes on. Dark, wavy locks hung over staunch, surly brows. But the eyes they framed were wide and angelic, emanating ice blue to rival the clumps of snow all about. The boy’s jaw formed a continuous, uninterrupted line, denoting strength and stalwartness, as did the muscular neck and well, every part of him. Full lips enunciated the wordless melody that hung on the air. The first peculiar thing Kaitlin noticed about the youth was his attire; his tunic was tattered and soiled, a far cry from what she was accustomed to among the courtiers of the palace. The coarse fabric was cinched at the waist, and sheer leggings defined muscular thighs that remained casually crossed as the boy leaned against the ashlar bridge. His sinewy forearms were outstretched, offering her the reigns that had slipped out of her own grasp moments before. He’d enchanted Puck too; the horse did not so much as stammer or pace—only waited patiently for command. “Thank you,” she managed, tipping her head. “M’Lady,” the youth replied, putting an end to the enticing lullaby. Kaitlin advanced with reticence; she knew better than to put herself in danger so far from the company of others. But something about the boy’s angelic voice made her trust him. Or to not wish to trust him. Or to mistrust herself, or some combination thereof. She felt her hand leaving her side. As it reached for the reigns, the boy’s outstretched hand closed around hers, and her eyes locked with his. In seconds, their lips had come together and she found herself in a state of complete surrender, sliding to the earth in wonderment at her own abandon, and at the same time, never having wanted a thing more. And then he was inside of her on the slippery earth, the two of them gasping in unison and her staring into the confusion of crisscrossing branches, flushing and heaving and welcoming the light sweat that came in defiance of winter. She’d been told by schoolmates the first time was always a disappointment; how wrong they had been. Or how unlucky. After the final gasp, the two lovers, strangers to one another, made introductions. “I’m Titus,” the youth offered, reclining against the base of the ashlar bridge, somewhat spent. Sheets of ice had begun to melt there where mitered granite met the soil, yielding a margin of verdant moss. It’s there Kaitlin wedged herself, collapsing into his sturdy frame. “I’m Kaitlin,” she reciprocated. She would not tell him she was Kaitlin Spencer,of the noble Westshire Spencers. Nor that she lived inside the castle walls, the only child of the royal seamstress and her silversmith husband. Least relevant of all at the moment—hence, no need to share—was the fact she was in line to court King Zardus himself one day. She was not descended from nobility, nor was she a member of the royal court. But it was well agreed-upon that she was the fairest maiden in all the land, and soon to be put on market. Her coming of age ceremony would take place in mere months. In the mean time, she was being preened. Withholding her social status did not feel like deception to the girl; the station that awaited her was hardly who she was anyway. And the roll in the—snow, as it were—that she’d just shared with the boy was the most honest act she’d engaged in in God knew how long. Still, to deflect attention, she asked “Do you live here, in these woods?” “Yes, M’Lady,” was all the boy offered. “I’ve heard tell of villages deep in these woods, but never had occasion to meet an inhabitant. Only at the Spring Festival, of course…” Once a year, folk from every corner of the kingdom gathered to celebrate the arrival of spring and to sell their wares. As a child, she’d been fascinated by forestfolk—by the dark, unruly appearance and demeanor of those who dwelt beneath leaf and limb. When she shared as much, the boy scowled. “You seem altogether—different,” she observed. The vendors and merchants who’d captured her imagination at the festival were less—idealized, to put it kindly. More gnarled and torqued and knobby, beset with peculiarities like not enough fingers or too many. Some sprouted fern-like limbs or fungus-like antlers, which made them ideal novelty acts during festival season. Kaitlin knew full well, even as a child, that the misfits and undesirables stood little chance in society, and so took to the shadowy underbelly of the forest canopy, forging a civil bond by their shared uniqueness. Over time, their existence, revealed only when stumbled upon by the wayward traveler unsure what he was seeing, gave rise to lore of dwarves and elves and goblins. “I was not born a forest dweller,” Titus explained. “I was taken in by forestfolk when my parents perished.” “I’m sorry,” Kaitlin consoled, gently stroking his thick umber locks. The boy’s eyes retreated in time, as though hacking away at thickets of brush to get at his earliest recollections. “My entire village was burned,” he continued. “By the Royal Army. It had been a harsh winter; we hadn’t the means to pay our taxes…” The boy’s sadness touched Kaitlin, and she lay her head upon his chest, allowing her chestnut hair to spill across it like spun gold. She knew her fair complexion contrasted with the swarthiness of his swelling ribcage, that the crimson flush of her cheek complemented the heart that beat inside, so rich with life and loss. “And how did you learn to sing?” Kaitlin asked in earnest. Though the melody had been wordless, the sheer mastery of his instrument, the perfect tone and utter pitch control, spoke of training. “I’m not sure,” Titus confessed humbly. “As far back as I can remember, I amused my new family with song. The forestfolk, though musically inclined themselves, called it a gift.” “A gift indeed,” Kaitlin Spencer concurred with unbridled enthusiasm. “The gift of enchantment…” Here she took to planting tiny breathless kisses across the flawless expanse of her lover’s chest. And then something came over her. “Carry me away once more,” she pleaded. “Let your voice carry me far from here, where words are silly and useless, where branches flutter and the forest quakes and appearances fall away like so many dead leaves…” Titus indulged her with his gift, that of impossibly ethereal overtones and undertones that resonated above and below—in the core of her being and the heady chambers of her lofty ideals. The melody was the same one as before—one she recognized from a dream of the past or a vision of the future, or both. It was as though he knew her better than she knew herself, keyed into her essence from some expansive perch beyond the here and now. The ineffable feeling of being transported, however, quickly turned to that of being abducted, and her heart beat wildly. Somewhere in the ether, her heels scrambled for solid ground, for fear of being whisked away to a place of no return. She panicked and sprang to her feet. “I must go,” she bade him. He sat up, bewildered. “But—” “I have had a most wonderful afternoon. One I shall never forget.” In her heart, she knew it to be true. What she could not know is how the memory of it would come to haunt her, or the indelible stamp it had already imprinted on her soul. “When shall I see you again?” the boy asked as Kaitlin mounted Puck from the bridge. “Never,” she called back regretfully. “I must never return to this place…” Halfway back to the barbican, she felt it and looked down. Her garment was soaked in blood. She began to devise an alibi. If she could not make it to her chambers unnoticed, she’d say her cycle had arrived, or that it was the horse. He’d become startled (not altogether untrue) and she’d suffered quite a jolt. She promised God that if King Zardus would buy the story (after all, she’d heard of quite a few hymens that had been broken not by husbands but by temperamental horses) she’d never be so reckless again. And she made sure of it. Or life did. From that day on, abandonment was tempered with structure and discipline, their meticulously orchestrated plans for her sufficient to distract her from her own heart. A week after Kaitlin Spencer’s coming of age ceremony, King Zardus called upon her by sending an engraved invitation to the door of the small cottage she shared with her parents. Lady Spencer’s eyes swelled like a squall on the high seas imagining an entire future for her daughter in the few words the squire read aloud:
Lady Kaitlin Spencer Your presence is required this very eve, at six-and-thirty on the clock At the Royal Banquet Hall That King Zardus might be enchanted by your company during supper. Lady Spencer wasted no time pressing her daughter’s fanciest gown, adorning it with brocade sashes and a train to rival her cascading locks. She was the royal seamstress; it was no effort at all ensuring her daughter’s appearance would eclipse that of every last lady of the court. She smiled approvingly once finishing touches had been applied, and bade her daughter farewell along with her husband, who was teary-eyed and full of pride. The King’s reaction on seeing the maiden was no less effusive; his jaw nearly fell to the floor in abject surrender when she was escorted into the enormous dining hall. Still, it was she who curtsied and kissed his ring, gluing her eyes to the floor. King Zardus immediately put the girl at ease, seating her beside him at the head of a ridiculously long rosewood dining table. The two were waited upon hand and foot, treated to a four-course meal of roast mutton and a string quartet. Kaitlin found the affair less stuffy than she’d feared, reveled in the sheer glory of abundance. It was clear the harshness of life was kept at bay here in the castle’s bailey, but a distant memory. She even found the king himself attractive, in a fatherly sort of way. His effusive laugh was earnest, contagious, calming her nerves and endearing him to her. She had to remind herself throughout the evening not to take the attention personally; the king was motivated to settle on a wife and produce an heir. Rumors of the otherwise benevolent ruler’s temper had made it to the furthest reaches of the kingdom, however distorted, rendering the momentary charity, at least in Kaitlin’s estimation, disingenuous. Or worse, subject to whim. She couldn’t shake the sense that although good fortune had landed her in the path of opportunity, the stakes were all or nothing. If she said the wrong thing, or if a foul mood beset the man, her head could end up in a basket like that of the last contender. Her fears proved unfounded in the end, and her head remained attached. After a three-week courtship, the two were wed in a lavish public ceremony. Subjects attended from far and wide, eager to lay eyes once again on the fairest maiden in the land, now a bride, and soon to be their queen. It was not long, however, before the fanfare and ceremony yielded to malice. Rumors of former dalliances came to haunt the queen in a most unkind way. In preparation for betrothal, royal midwives had officially confirmed the bride’s hymen had gone the way of so many other young equestrians’, and the assessment had appeased royal concern. But whispers began to circulate on the lips of courtesans, primarily the lips of those who wished to cull favor with the king. Or better still, to share his bed once the queen’s head was on a post somewhere. The rumors were not confined to the palace walls; pamphlets circulated in the streets, tabloids meant to tarnish the as-yet pristine but mysterious reputation of the young queen. In an attempt to endear herself to the people and diffuse any ill will with earthiness, the queen guzzled ale at festivals, told raucous and bawdy jokes in public. The king was only charmed by the impropriety, momentarily blinded by love. He hadn’t seen it coming—not by a long shot. But the people were not so charitable, taking the relaxed decorum as further proof of their queen’s inferior stock. The king paid no attention; if anything, his myopia extended to the notion the two were a team, that the shelter of their union could withstand any storm. He reveled in the new protocol—a more friendly and accessible oligarchy. Even so, when Kaitlin’s head hit the silk pillow at night, imagining Titus’s supple lips on her breast all those years ago, she couldn’t help but worry. Part of her knew at any moment the gossip might rouse her husband’s suspicions. Despite his own disdain for appearances, he’d behead her in an instant if his dignity was threatened. He was a man, after all, and a prideful one at that. Over time, the king’s council bent his ear. The people were not sophisticated enough for change, they said, at least not in the form of relaxed protocol. It would be wise to curtail ‘earthiness’ with manners, he was advised; the rebellious streak the royal couple shared would benefit from improved appearances. And it was always best to have the people on your side. The king took to reminding his wife to sit up straight, to retire her goblet early in the evening, to wave correctly and use the right utensil at the right time. Queen Kaitlin took to sobbing at night once she’d dismissed her handmaiden. The formalities were killing her inside.
Even the couple’s lovemaking was routine. At first, when she was called upon to visit the king’s chambers and do her wifely duty, she cherished the regularity. She found great purpose in lying beneath his corpulent royal mass, staring at the gilded tiles above. She wanted nothing more than to bear the man an heir. But the familiar, comforting ritual turned eventually to desperate protests her heart alone could hear: she had wants and needs of her own. Desires. Dear lord, she thought, if he only knew…
More to come!
A harsh winter had ravaged the landscape, leaving little more than tracts of hard-packed ice impaled by bare stumps, set stark and wretched against a brooding sky. The bleakness was alarming but strangely familiar, echoing her heart’s melancholy with sublime poetry. Adolescence had come without warning, isolating Kaitlin Spencer as much or more than the relentlessly churning storms, making her a stranger to her own impulses. Worse, she’d been holed up for weeks in a tiny, dilapidated cottage just inside the palace walls with her parents, also strangers. She’d spoken to them only when inevitable. This was her first outing since the sun had peeked sheepishly between walls of gray, illuminating a single patch of snow. She’d been surveying the surrounding terrain on horseback for mere moments when Puck lost his footing on the slickness, throwing her and bolting into the shadowy gullet of the bare-limbed forest that reared up behind the palace. She rose, dusted herself with stiff, frozen fingers, and ignoring the throbbing in the hip on which she’d landed, started after her impertinent steed. “Puck!” She cried into the hollowness. The mysterious dark swallowed her velvety tones instantly, just as tangles of wretched limbs strangled all light at a certain distance. She could hear the clopping of hooves on randomly strewn rocks not far ahead; he hadn’t gone far. It wasn’t like him to be spooked, and even less so, disobedient. Soon he’d return and eat carrots from her outstretched palm. “Puck!” She called again, to combat the dread that seemed to hang over the place more and more the deeper she penetrated. The cloud cover filtered the sun like a blanket, but the crisscrossing limbs rendered light even more muddled and confusing here in the forest, making it impossible to tell the time of day. She’d left the palace grounds only moments before, but suddenly felt hours could have passed, or days, or weeks. She called a third time, but the sound of her own voice was scarcely recognizable, edged as it was with panic. She pursued the resounding clatter of hooves, her own overtones mingling with the gentle cacophony. But suddenly there was a third sound, weaving its rich, melodious baritone between the more percussive, staccato lines like a shimmering thread. It was sweetly seductive and captivating all at once, transforming the barren glen into a magical tapestry. Kaitlin found herself entangled in its weave, tugged along weightlessly by the shimmering thread of a voice, helpless to resist even if she’d wanted to. Puck became an afterthought or a distant memory, so hypnotic was the effect. And there, emerging from darkness and centered in the tapestry like a perfectly embroidered tableau, stood the source of the unearthly melody. Framed by an ashlar bridge that spanned a shimmering rivulet, bathed in dapples of golden light—the few that dared penetrate the sheath of darkness—stood the most beautiful youth Kaitlin had ever laid eyes on. Dark, wavy locks hung over staunch, surly brows. But the eyes they framed were wide and angelic, emanating ice blue to rival the clumps of snow all about. The boy’s jaw formed a continuous, uninterrupted line, denoting strength and stalwartness, as did the muscular neck and well, every part of him. Full lips enunciated the wordless melody that hung on the air. The first peculiar thing Kaitlin noticed about the youth was his attire; his tunic was tattered and soiled, a far cry from what she was accustomed to among the courtiers of the palace. The coarse fabric was cinched at the waist, and sheer leggings defined muscular thighs that remained casually crossed as the boy leaned against the ashlar bridge. His sinewy forearms were outstretched, offering her the reigns that had slipped out of her own grasp moments before. He’d enchanted Puck too; the horse did not so much as stammer or pace—only waited patiently for command. “Thank you,” she managed, tipping her head. “M’Lady,” the youth replied, putting an end to the enticing lullaby. Kaitlin advanced with reticence; she knew better than to put herself in danger so far from the company of others. But something about the boy’s angelic voice made her trust him. Or to not wish to trust him. Or to mistrust herself, or some combination thereof. She felt her hand leaving her side. As it reached for the reigns, the boy’s outstretched hand closed around hers, and her eyes locked with his. In seconds, their lips had come together and she found herself in a state of complete surrender, sliding to the earth in wonderment at her own abandon, and at the same time, never having wanted a thing more. And then he was inside of her on the slippery earth, the two of them gasping in unison and her staring into the confusion of crisscrossing branches, flushing and heaving and welcoming the light sweat that came in defiance of winter. She’d been told by schoolmates the first time was always a disappointment; how wrong they had been. Or how unlucky. After the final gasp, the two lovers, strangers to one another, made introductions. “I’m Titus,” the youth offered, reclining against the base of the ashlar bridge, somewhat spent. Sheets of ice had begun to melt there where mitered granite met the soil, yielding a margin of verdant moss. It’s there Kaitlin wedged herself, collapsing into his sturdy frame. “I’m Kaitlin,” she reciprocated. She would not tell him she was Kaitlin Spencer,of the noble Westshire Spencers. Nor that she lived inside the castle walls, the only child of the royal seamstress and her silversmith husband. Least relevant of all at the moment—hence, no need to share—was the fact she was in line to court King Zardus himself one day. She was not descended from nobility, nor was she a member of the royal court. But it was well agreed-upon that she was the fairest maiden in all the land, and soon to be put on market. Her coming of age ceremony would take place in mere months. In the mean time, she was being preened. Withholding her social status did not feel like deception to the girl; the station that awaited her was hardly who she was anyway. And the roll in the—snow, as it were—that she’d just shared with the boy was the most honest act she’d engaged in in God knew how long. Still, to deflect attention, she asked “Do you live here, in these woods?” “Yes, M’Lady,” was all the boy offered. “I’ve heard tell of villages deep in these woods, but never had occasion to meet an inhabitant. Only at the Spring Festival, of course…” Once a year, folk from every corner of the kingdom gathered to celebrate the arrival of spring and to sell their wares. As a child, she’d been fascinated by forestfolk—by the dark, unruly appearance and demeanor of those who dwelt beneath leaf and limb. When she shared as much, the boy scowled. “You seem altogether—different,” she observed. The vendors and merchants who’d captured her imagination at the festival were less—idealized, to put it kindly. More gnarled and torqued and knobby, beset with peculiarities like not enough fingers or too many. Some sprouted fern-like limbs or fungus-like antlers, which made them ideal novelty acts during festival season. Kaitlin knew full well, even as a child, that the misfits and undesirables stood little chance in society, and so took to the shadowy underbelly of the forest canopy, forging a civil bond by their shared uniqueness. Over time, their existence, revealed only when stumbled upon by the wayward traveler unsure what he was seeing, gave rise to lore of dwarves and elves and goblins. “I was not born a forest dweller,” Titus explained. “I was taken in by forestfolk when my parents perished.” “I’m sorry,” Kaitlin consoled, gently stroking his thick umber locks. The boy’s eyes retreated in time, as though hacking away at thickets of brush to get at his earliest recollections. “My entire village was burned,” he continued. “By the Royal Army. It had been a harsh winter; we hadn’t the means to pay our taxes…” The boy’s sadness touched Kaitlin, and she lay her head upon his chest, allowing her chestnut hair to spill across it like spun gold. She knew her fair complexion contrasted with the swarthiness of his swelling ribcage, that the crimson flush of her cheek complemented the heart that beat inside, so rich with life and loss. “And how did you learn to sing?” Kaitlin asked in earnest. Though the melody had been wordless, the sheer mastery of his instrument, the perfect tone and utter pitch control, spoke of training. “I’m not sure,” Titus confessed humbly. “As far back as I can remember, I amused my new family with song. The forestfolk, though musically inclined themselves, called it a gift.” “A gift indeed,” Kaitlin Spencer concurred with unbridled enthusiasm. “The gift of enchantment…” Here she took to planting tiny breathless kisses across the flawless expanse of her lover’s chest. And then something came over her. “Carry me away once more,” she pleaded. “Let your voice carry me far from here, where words are silly and useless, where branches flutter and the forest quakes and appearances fall away like so many dead leaves…” Titus indulged her with his gift, that of impossibly ethereal overtones and undertones that resonated above and below—in the core of her being and the heady chambers of her lofty ideals. The melody was the same one as before—one she recognized from a dream of the past or a vision of the future, or both. It was as though he knew her better than she knew herself, keyed into her essence from some expansive perch beyond the here and now. The ineffable feeling of being transported, however, quickly turned to that of being abducted, and her heart beat wildly. Somewhere in the ether, her heels scrambled for solid ground, for fear of being whisked away to a place of no return. She panicked and sprang to her feet. “I must go,” she bade him. He sat up, bewildered. “But—” “I have had a most wonderful afternoon. One I shall never forget.” In her heart, she knew it to be true. What she could not know is how the memory of it would come to haunt her, or the indelible stamp it had already imprinted on her soul. “When shall I see you again?” the boy asked as Kaitlin mounted Puck from the bridge. “Never,” she called back regretfully. “I must never return to this place…” Halfway back to the barbican, she felt it and looked down. Her garment was soaked in blood. She began to devise an alibi. If she could not make it to her chambers unnoticed, she’d say her cycle had arrived, or that it was the horse. He’d become startled (not altogether untrue) and she’d suffered quite a jolt. She promised God that if King Zardus would buy the story (after all, she’d heard of quite a few hymens that had been broken not by husbands but by temperamental horses) she’d never be so reckless again. And she made sure of it. Or life did. From that day on, abandonment was tempered with structure and discipline, their meticulously orchestrated plans for her sufficient to distract her from her own heart. A week after Kaitlin Spencer’s coming of age ceremony, King Zardus called upon her by sending an engraved invitation to the door of the small cottage she shared with her parents. Lady Spencer’s eyes swelled like a squall on the high seas imagining an entire future for her daughter in the few words the squire read aloud:
Lady Kaitlin Spencer Your presence is required this very eve, at six-and-thirty on the clock At the Royal Banquet Hall That King Zardus might be enchanted by your company during supper. Lady Spencer wasted no time pressing her daughter’s fanciest gown, adorning it with brocade sashes and a train to rival her cascading locks. She was the royal seamstress; it was no effort at all ensuring her daughter’s appearance would eclipse that of every last lady of the court. She smiled approvingly once finishing touches had been applied, and bade her daughter farewell along with her husband, who was teary-eyed and full of pride. The King’s reaction on seeing the maiden was no less effusive; his jaw nearly fell to the floor in abject surrender when she was escorted into the enormous dining hall. Still, it was she who curtsied and kissed his ring, gluing her eyes to the floor. King Zardus immediately put the girl at ease, seating her beside him at the head of a ridiculously long rosewood dining table. The two were waited upon hand and foot, treated to a four-course meal of roast mutton and a string quartet. Kaitlin found the affair less stuffy than she’d feared, reveled in the sheer glory of abundance. It was clear the harshness of life was kept at bay here in the castle’s bailey, but a distant memory. She even found the king himself attractive, in a fatherly sort of way. His effusive laugh was earnest, contagious, calming her nerves and endearing him to her. She had to remind herself throughout the evening not to take the attention personally; the king was motivated to settle on a wife and produce an heir. Rumors of the otherwise benevolent ruler’s temper had made it to the furthest reaches of the kingdom, however distorted, rendering the momentary charity, at least in Kaitlin’s estimation, disingenuous. Or worse, subject to whim. She couldn’t shake the sense that although good fortune had landed her in the path of opportunity, the stakes were all or nothing. If she said the wrong thing, or if a foul mood beset the man, her head could end up in a basket like that of the last contender. Her fears proved unfounded in the end, and her head remained attached. After a three-week courtship, the two were wed in a lavish public ceremony. Subjects attended from far and wide, eager to lay eyes once again on the fairest maiden in the land, now a bride, and soon to be their queen. It was not long, however, before the fanfare and ceremony yielded to malice. Rumors of former dalliances came to haunt the queen in a most unkind way. In preparation for betrothal, royal midwives had officially confirmed the bride’s hymen had gone the way of so many other young equestrians’, and the assessment had appeased royal concern. But whispers began to circulate on the lips of courtesans, primarily the lips of those who wished to cull favor with the king. Or better still, to share his bed once the queen’s head was on a post somewhere. The rumors were not confined to the palace walls; pamphlets circulated in the streets, tabloids meant to tarnish the as-yet pristine but mysterious reputation of the young queen. In an attempt to endear herself to the people and diffuse any ill will with earthiness, the queen guzzled ale at festivals, told raucous and bawdy jokes in public. The king was only charmed by the impropriety, momentarily blinded by love. He hadn’t seen it coming—not by a long shot. But the people were not so charitable, taking the relaxed decorum as further proof of their queen’s inferior stock. The king paid no attention; if anything, his myopia extended to the notion the two were a team, that the shelter of their union could withstand any storm. He reveled in the new protocol—a more friendly and accessible oligarchy. Even so, when Kaitlin’s head hit the silk pillow at night, imagining Titus’s supple lips on her breast all those years ago, she couldn’t help but worry. Part of her knew at any moment the gossip might rouse her husband’s suspicions. Despite his own disdain for appearances, he’d behead her in an instant if his dignity was threatened. He was a man, after all, and a prideful one at that. Over time, the king’s council bent his ear. The people were not sophisticated enough for change, they said, at least not in the form of relaxed protocol. It would be wise to curtail ‘earthiness’ with manners, he was advised; the rebellious streak the royal couple shared would benefit from improved appearances. And it was always best to have the people on your side. The king took to reminding his wife to sit up straight, to retire her goblet early in the evening, to wave correctly and use the right utensil at the right time. Queen Kaitlin took to sobbing at night once she’d dismissed her handmaiden. The formalities were killing her inside.
Even the couple’s lovemaking was routine. At first, when she was called upon to visit the king’s chambers and do her wifely duty, she cherished the regularity. She found great purpose in lying beneath his corpulent royal mass, staring at the gilded tiles above. She wanted nothing more than to bear the man an heir. But the familiar, comforting ritual turned eventually to desperate protests her heart alone could hear: she had wants and needs of her own. Desires. Dear lord, she thought, if he only knew…
More to come!
No comments have been added yet.
