“Petite? What’s that?”
“Petite. It means delicate, small.”
“Short-arse, you mean.”
“I wish I hadn’t brought this up.”
“So stop talking and get walking. You need to keep up, so we get to Dornan before your boots are sold. The fair will bring in plenty of customers. Short people will be flocking there. Dornan is known for being a magnet for short-arses.”
CATHERINE
BRIGANE, BRIGANT
It is commonly known that women cannot be trusted and are sly, secretive, and vexatious. Whereas men form strong, honest relations with each other, women form weak, short-lived relations with men. Men who have strong relations with women are weaker for it. If your wife is disobedient in any way, immediate disciplinary procedures are required. Three to five strokes of a short cane to the palm of the hand will usually suffice. Dunking the head in a small barrel of cold water may also be helpful. For persistent disobedience, seclusion in small spaces is advised. Some women benefit from bricking up for a day, and the purchase of a coffin-sized box can have such strong deterrent effects that it may not have to be used at all. (If it is, ensure that there are vents for breathing.)
Marriage: A Guide for the Brigantine Gentleman,
James Daly
CATHERINE WAS sitting in the castle library staring out of the window and thinking about Ambrose. It was three days since he’d fled, and she’d heard nothing. She told herself it was a good sign, a sign that he hadn’t been caught, as she was sure Boris would have told her if he had. Boris would delight in telling her. Catherine shuddered.
“Are you well, Catherine? Don’t catch a chill at the window.”
Catherine glanced over at her mother. “I’m not cold. I was thinking about . . . Prince Tzsayn.”
Catherine had never met Tzsayn, never even seen him, never mind spoken to him, but in two weeks she would be married to him.
“Can you tell me more about him?”
Her mother smiled. “He’s the only son of King Arell of Pitoria. The queen died during the birth of his younger brother, who died shortly afterward.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Pitoria is wealthy and peaceful. A large country to manage, though the lords there, from what I can glean, are loyal. And through your marriage the difficult relations between our countries will be improved. During the war, Pitorian ships took provisions to Thelonius in Calia. It’s taken your father many years and your forthcoming marriage to forgive that.”
Catherine had heard this all before. She knew about Pitoria, and the system of lords was much the same as in Brigant. She also knew that her father wouldn’t even consider her marrying a Pitorian until last year. That he’d changed his mind (one would hardly dare use the word “softened” with the king) to allow a Pitorian onto her list of suitors was surprising enough, but then there was the question of the groom’s health. Everyone in Brigant knew that Prince Tzsayn was deformed: deaf in one ear and hideously scarred. Her father was never tolerant of any illness or disability, but though there had been other eligible suitors, Prince Tzsayn had shot to the top of the list. And shortly after first hearing his name mentioned, Catherine had been informed that they were betrothed.
“Yes, I’ve read about the country, and I know about his family, but I’d like to know more about Prince Tzsayn.”
“The man himself, you mean?”
“Yes, the man himself.”
“A man of rank is indistinguishable from his role. Tzsayn is of the highest rank. He is next in line to the throne of Pitoria.”
“Yes, I know that, but what about him?”
“I really can’t think of anything else to tell you.”
Catherine was certain her mother was teasing her now and that she knew plenty more, but clearly she was going to make her work for it. It was almost a game between them. Catherine started with the most important point.
“How old is he?”
“Is that really relevant?”
“It’s vital for childbearing and maturity in his role as heir.”
The queen suppressed a smile. “I’m sure that’s your only reason for asking. He’s twenty-three.”
Which was not too old. He could have been ancient, as some of her other suitors had been.
The queen continued. “Tzsayn was born in December, I believe. On a new moon. Some say that makes for a cold personality.”
“Was he cold when you met him?”
“He was not without charm or intelligence.”
“That sounds like a “yes.’”
“Cool rather than cold. I sensed there was more to him than the chilly exterior, but, if there was, he had no inclination to show me.”
“Proud then.”
The queen shrugged. “He’s a man.”
“I’ve heard that he is deaf in one ear.”
“Perhaps you heard that wrong. I think he can hear quite as well as you or me, though he may pretend otherwise.”
“So he’s deceitful.”
“I got the impression it was more that he was easily bored.”
This sounded worrying. Would he find Catherine boring?
“And his attitude to marriage? To me?”
“Attitude?”
“Do you think he will be gentle and kind? Considerate of my needs?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Better that than cruel.”
“Gentleness and kindness don’t usually make for great rulers.”
“I want a husband for myself and a ruler for the kingdom.”
“Difficult to get both. But I believe he will suit you, my dear. The Pitorians are different from Brigantines. They’re increasingly influenced from the east. They do have a more liberal view of women’s roles, for example.”
“Liberal?”
“Tzsayn told me he had traveled to Illast and was impressed that women there ran businesses and kept their own houses, owned property.”
Interesting, thought Catherine, but irrelevant to me. Her chances of running a business were exactly nought. She would live in the prince’s castle, as much his property as any other object within.
She handed her mother the pamphlet that recommended women be caned for disobedience. “I’ve been reading this. I wonder if they agree with it in Pitoria.”
The queen looked through it. “You shouldn’t waste your time on this. No one should.” She dropped it on the table as if it were soiled. “You need something new for a new country. Something inspiring. There’s a biography of Queen Valeria of Illast you should read. She was an unusual woman and had an interesting life and marriage. I think that is what you need, my dear.”
“The book or the marriage?”
The queen smiled as she walked to the tall shelves. “I’ll find the book. But you must shape your marriage.”
Catherine didn’t dare say that what she really wanted was to not have a marriage like her mother’s—cold, loveless, and functional. And preferably not to Tzsayn. But that was what she would have. There was no other option. She would have to make the best of it.
But could there be love in her marriage? Would she love her husband? Could he love her? Did it matter? She’d had feelings for Ambrose, strong feelings, and while she’d denied it to herself before, now that she knew she’d never see him again, she could admit they had been feelings of love. But that’s all she’d ever have, her feelings and her memories of him. And she had learned from that too, though what she’d learned she wasn’t sure—mainly that not all men were like her father and brother. And she was determined not to forget Ambrose: his vulnerability and his strength, the way his hair would blow in the breeze, his way of standing, of walking, the incline of his head, the way he looked sideways, his shoulders, his thighs as he rode his horse. She’d once seen Ambrose training in the yard, the sweat on his neck, his
shirt loose but clinging to the sweat of his back . . . But were those thoughts of love or desire? And could she love Tzsayn?
Her mother returned and handed Catherine a slender, leather-bound volume: the book about Queen Valeria. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask?”
“Umm. Yes. What about . . . love?” Catherine ventured, blushing as she said the word to her mother.
“Love?”
“I read that it may grow between two people.”
“Tzsayn may love you and you may love him. Show him kindness and gentleness, show him a little of your intelligence, develop your charm, and you will thrive in Pitoria.”
“I can’t imagine thriving there at all. Or indeed anywhere. Where could any woman thrive?”
“Pitoria is not Brigant and Tzsayn is not Aloysius.” Her mother came to Catherine and stroked her cheek. “And you are not me. Find your own way to make your life, Catherine. It will be a very different one from what you have here. I know you think my life is stifled, but I’ve made it the best I can to suit me. My advice is that from the start you make yours suit you. In Pitoria you will have many freedoms that you don’t have here, that I can never have. You will be able to travel, to leave the castle, to mix with other people.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“That is how Pitoria is.”
“Will I see you again, once I’m married?”
“You know your father will never let me leave the castle. It’s taken all my power to get him to allow you to even ride out of the palace gates. My place is here, I accept that, and yours will be in Pitoria. I will miss you, Catherine.”
It was rare to hear emotion in the queen’s voice, but Catherine heard it then. Her mother kept her emotions as tightly controlled as Aloysius kept her life. Catherine yearned for freedom and wished her mother could experience it too. Wishing and yearning were one thing, doing was another.
“But how can I make my life suit me? I’ll have a few maids and a few dresses and nothing more. No power. No influence.”
“You are a princess, daughter of Aloysius of Brigant, and you will be wife of the future king of Pitoria. That is much. True, you will have no money, no land, but Queen Valeria started with just as little. She used the one thing that she could influence. Possibly the most important thing.”
“Oh? Are you going to tell me what this thing is?”
“The people.”
Catherine felt a little deflated. She remembered the horror of the crowd at Lady Anne’s execution, baying for blood and shouting Aloysius’s name.
“Valeria won the people over. People loved her, sent her gifts, swore their loyalty. The people wanted to see her, wanted to bathe in her presence. They loved her.”
That certainly sounded much better than people shouting for an execution.
“Do you think I can do that?”
“You can achieve much, Catherine. It’s how badly you want it. How hard you’ll work for it.”
“I’d certainly prefer it to being locked up in a castle for the rest of my life.” Catherine immediately felt guilty for voicing her ideas too strongly, but her mother smiled.
“Then you should plan for it. And start as soon as you reach Pitoria. I’ll do what I can to help you prepare.”
With a soft knock, a servant entered, bearing a scroll for the queen.
“From Prince Boris, Your Majesty.”
Catherine felt sick. Was this about Ambrose? Had he been caught? She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Does it concern me?”
“It does.” The queen looked at her. “You have your marching orders.”
Marching orders?
“Boris is planning your marriage like a military campaign. He’s sent details of the travel arrangements.”
Catherine was relieved that it was something relatively minor, though Boris considered his role anything but that and was organizing her marriage with remarkable assiduosity.
“Am I allowed to know what the plan is?”
The queen nodded. “You are to leave here in six days’ time, and travel by sea to Pitoria, under the protection of your brother. Once in Pitoria you will travel to the royal castle in Tornia and be introduced to the key families. You are to act under the guidance of your brother at all times. And on the twenty-third of May, the day before your seventeenth birthday, you are to be married to Prince Tzsayn.”
The queen held the scroll out for Catherine, saying, “Boris has been quite specific about the wedding festivities, naming all who are to attend the wedding, and to whom you are to be introduced. He’s put effort into this.”
Catherine scanned the letter. Among numerous details were these words: “Following tradition, the king requires that all the nobles of Pitoria be introduced to Catherine at her wedding and that she be given the respect that is her due as the daughter of King Aloysius and future queen of Pitoria.”
Catherine was surprised. All her life she’d been locked away in the castle, hardly allowed to see a soul, apart from certain courtiers and her guards. She’d never even been presented to any of her suitors.
But her father was ever practical. Locking Catherine away served the purpose of keeping her “safe” until her marriage and, once married, her father needed her to fulfill a new role as the bridge between Brigant and Pitoria.
The king’s aim was one her mother had taught her early: he wanted Calidor, he wanted to avenge his defeat and take his brother’s kingdom, which he felt was his by right. And everything he did was driven by that aim, including the marriage of his daughter. And the best use of Catherine was marrying her to the prince of Pitoria so that relations, and, most importantly, trade, could be improved and the black hole in the king’s treasury could be filled so that war with Calidor could be resumed.
Catherine smiled at her mother. “It certainly doesn’t look like I’m going to be locked away before my wedding.”
“Make the most of that time, Catherine, and, make of your marriage what you can.”
Catherine could make the most of it; she could help promote trade, promote other things, though she wasn’t sure what they would be, but she could have a life where she wasn’t shut away like her mother. She could help her father, his kingdom, and herself. She knew she could never be with Ambrose, she had always known that, but perhaps he would continue to evade Noyes and she could find freedom of her own in Pitoria.
MARCH
THE PITORIAN SEA
THE LOW faint green line of Pitoria was ahead on the horizon. March was standing with Holywell at the bow of the ship, enjoying the rise and fall and seeing the land before him take shape, as if he was riding into his own future. This was a future of his own making. His Abask life had been taken and he’d been given a servant’s life instead, but now he was on his way to reclaiming his destiny and to getting his revenge on Prince Thelonius. Holywell’s plan was simple: they would follow Regan to find Thelonius’s son and then kidnap the boy and take him to Brigant, to King Aloysius himself.
“Have you met Aloysius?” March asked Holywell.
“A few times. You’re not the only one familiar with royalty.”
“Is he as ruthless as they say?”
“Vicious is his nickname and it suits him well enough.”
“What will he do with Thelonius’s son?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Apart from the fact that he’ll pay us well for him.”
“I’m not doing this for money.”
“Well, my young brother, I imagine Aloysius will take great pleasure in making sure the prince knows his son is not in the lap of luxury but in a Brigantine dungeon.” Holywell looked at March. “He may kill him, though I doubt that; he’s more valuable alive. Is a son’s torture enough for you?”
March thought about it, and in truth all he wanted was to imagine the prince’s face when he discovered that not only had he lost a so
n, his blood, the first and last of his children, but that he had lost him because of March, because of how he had treated the Abask people and how he had betrayed them.
“I want him to know it’s because of what he did to us all.”
“Well, my angry young friend, you will have to tell him.”
March wasn’t sure how he’d do that, but he liked the thought of it.
“Maybe I will one day.”
“Have confidence,” Holywell said. “You’ll be surprised what we Abask nobodies can achieve.” He slapped March on the arm.
And March did have confidence, because Holywell had confidence. Holywell knew so much, more than March had expected. He spoke four languages, knew how the sails worked to move the ship and how it was steered, and he explained these things with surprising patience to March. Holywell spoke in Pitorian to March, teaching him and testing him. Holywell also taught him card tricks and dice and sometimes joined in the games with the sailors, but only enough to make a few friends and lose enough money to keep them. Just being with Holywell was enough to make him think that anything was possible.
March looked back toward Calidor. It had disappeared from sight on the afternoon of the first day, but March enjoyed knowing that the prince and his drinks table were still there, small and insignificant and far, far behind him.
March said to Holywell, “I went back to the castle before we left.”
Holywell raised his eyebrows. “When?”
“Early, before our ship sailed. I wanted to tell the prince that I was leaving.” He’d lain awake all night imagining what he’d say, the swear words he would use as he told the prince how he hated him, how he despised his supposedly civilized ways. How Thelonius’s fine manners and clothes couldn’t hide what he really was: a man who betrayed his promises, broke his oaths, a man no one should trust, and that he, March, could see the prince for the traitor he really was.
“And did you tell him?”
“He’d gone out riding at dawn. One of his old habits, but he’d stopped going since his wife’s death.”