The Lady and the Prince

Prince Henry Nicholas Warwick was bored. His Ibarran teacher was droning on about some staircase in Ibarra’s capitol, how beautiful it was and blah, blah, blah. The prince’s Ibarran was excellent, and the class was a waste of his time as far as he was concerned.

He ruffled his hand through his shoulder-length brown hair. “So how many steps does it have?” he interrupted innocently in perfect Ibarran, knowing Master Gomev had already covered that.

“One hundred ninety-eight,” the tutor said patiently. It was going to be one of those days.

“And it’s made out of granite?”

“Marble.”

“What color is it, did you say?”

“White. It’s marble, one hundred ninety-eight stairs.”

“Is it really old?”

“Yes, over two hundred years old. I have already said these things. Please pay attention.”

Prince Nicky snickered a little. “Oh, I am. I find staircases I have never seen so very interesting.”

The tutor crossed his arms and looked at his only student. Was there any point in continuing?

Just then, a young page came to the door and knocked politely. The door was open, but one didn’t just intrude on a prince, even a bored one. The tutor looked over and raised his eyebrows in question.

The page stepped inside the little room and bowed low. He was small and nervously delivered his memorized message in a high flat voice.

“Your Highness, the king commands you attend him following your final class.”

The prince interrupted, “You mean the king, my father?”

Confused, the page stumbled to a halt in his recitation and said, “Yes, the king.”

“Is the king not my father?”

The little page stood mute, having no idea what he should say. He gave Master Gomev a panicky look.

“That sort of accusation can get you flogged, you know.” The prince was grinning, teasing the child, but the boy’s eyes got huge, and he started shaking his head to go with what his knees were doing.

Master Gomev took pity on the inexperienced lad; someone had to step in when the prince was in this sort of mood.

He asked the page gently, “Was there not more to the message? Where is the prince to appear after his last class?”

The boy latched on to the lifeline. He was safe as long as he just said what he had been told, wasn’t he?

“The prince is to come to the king’s consulting room as soon as he has made himself presentable.” The page quickly bowed low, backed up one step, and then turned and scampered away, hoping Prince Nicky didn’t know his name and that he wouldn’t get in trouble for whatever it was he had done wrong.

Master Gomev gave up. The prince wasn’t interested in today’s lesson; he would have to think of something more entertaining than historical artifacts for tomorrow’s lesson. His student was frowning at him anyway for spoiling his sport with the page, so it would only get worse if he continued.

“Thank you, Your Highness. That will be all for today.”

Prince Nicky stood and muttered, “ThankyouMasterGomev,” the rote phrase at the end of every lesson as he walked out. Master Gomev bowed to the empty room.

Nicky hadn’t gotten out of class that much earlier than usual, but with a little time to kill, he wandered upstairs to his brother Richard’s office. Prince Richard, the king’s second son, was Anglia’s Warleader and as such had to spend time on administration of the army and navy, a task he despised but did to the best of his ability.

Prince Richard was alone in his office, so Prince Nicky knocked on the door frame. His older brother looked up from the thick sheaf of papers he had been scowling at in relief. He had the typical red-blond hair of the royal family cut very short and his father’s tall, broad-shouldered build. He could best anyone with a sword or a lance and gladly studied military strategy and tactics, but jousting with regulations had come near to defeating him once or twice. When he saw his young half-brother in the doorway, he frowned.

“Prince Nicky, shouldn’t you be in class?” Richard asked sharply.

The younger prince grimaced a little. Everybody in the family called him Nicky ever since his father had when he was a month old. His mother, Queen Ariella, had died then, the delayed result of birthing her only child. “Old Nick” was the polite term for the Devil, and the king had been angry at the innocent child that had been born in the wee hours of All Soul’s Day, the first day of November. But the name had stuck, and he didn’t really mind it so much anymore, but the diminutive form was starting to annoy him as he got older.

“Gummy Gomev let me out early,” he replied insolently.

“Because you were being a jackass, no doubt.” The implication was clear that Richard thought he still was.

Prince Nicky shrugged his slender shoulders; he hadn’t gotten his father’s athletic build. “He was being boring.”

“And that’s a great crime, is it? You’re a prince. Your duty requires you to put up with boredom sometimes,” Richard said severely. He hated preaching at the squirt, but no one else would bother.

Prince Nicky looked sulky for a few seconds, but then said pleadingly, “I was just having some fun. I get to have fun once in a while, don’t I?”

“No, absolutely no fun,” Richard said sternly, but there was a twinkle in his deep brown eyes. He tossed the top piece of paper across his desk. “Can you make anything out of the first paragraph?”

The younger prince flopped down in a chair and read the paragraph and then read it again. “It says a lieutenant who wants to be promoted should have support from the ranks, but not undermine the authority of his captain in seven convoluted sentences.” Prince Nicky frowned and tossed the page back. “How is he supposed to do that?”

Richard just shook his head. “Beats me. I’ll cross it out. I wish the army could write in simple, plain Anglian. You’d better get to your next class. What is it, math?”

“No, I had that this morning. It’s GPE.”

Richard wrinkled his nose. “I always hated Genealogy Protocol and Etiquette.”

Nicky heaved himself out of his chair. “Everybody hates it, except girls.”

Prince Nicky spent the next hour with four different complicated dining place settings, studying the differences in formal dining between Anglia, Franck, Drusia, and Ibarra. He was glad when he could finally escape, although his final class for the day was Arms.

He trudged to the practice room, stripped off his jacket, and limbered up. He hated arms practice, particularly sword practice. He was bad at it. He was very fast and had good balance, but he just couldn’t seem to hold on to the sword like he should, holding it too lightly and having it knocked out of his hand or gripping it so tightly it hurt and he couldn’t move it properly. Actually, it was uncomfortable no matter how he held it.

Arms master Connidian stalked gracefully into the private area in the large barn-like structure that served as the Arms classroom. In the public area he gave lessons to local noble boys whose parents were in favor with the king and high-ranking officers. Only the royals used the private area, and Nicky was glad no one else could see him fail repeatedly with a sword. He suddenly wondered if that was what the king wanted to see him about. Had Connidian snitched on him to the king?

But he had a good excuse today for avoiding the rigors of sword practice. “Master Connidian, I am to see the king after practice, so perhaps I shouldn’t get too, uh, sweaty?”

Master Connidian was nearly as tall as Richard, but with a slighter build. He had dark close-cropped hair and skin that always looked tanned, although he spent little time outdoors. His dark eyes regarded his young charge, evaluating the truthfulness of the statement. He knew the youngest prince disliked his lessons and would avoid them if possible. Perhaps it had something to do with having a different mother; the rest of the king’s children had excelled at arms practice, even the princesses. Finally satisfied Prince Nicky wasn’t lying, he nodded.

“Archery then,” was all he said. Relieved, Nicky went to the rack and selected a medium-sized bow and practice arrows the right length for his arms. He always had to check the length; he wasn’t through growing. He shot diligently for his assigned hour, glad to be allowed to do something he was at least competent at and didn’t cause pain. He always left sword practice with a new set of bruises.

He racked the bow and arrows properly and returned to his room. It wasn’t overly large, but he didn’t care; it wasn’t as if he entertained or spent much time there. The young prince wasn’t going to complain about the size, he didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he had his own room rather than living in the nursery. Being underage, he could be forced to stay there just like he had no official say in his hairstyle or clothing.

Nicky stripped off his outer clothes and washed, combed his long hair and then tied it back. He dressed in his approved formal audience clothing. At least he had long pants now; he hadn’t two years ago. Neat and clean, he headed for the king’s consulting room.

The prince had to wait, of course. Everyone waited for the king, no one made the king wait; his official time was far too valuable. Finally the door to the room opened, and half a dozen Councilmen filed out. They ignored him, and he them. As an underage child he had no standing in the court.

He was beckoned in by Baronet Hargrove, the king’s appointment secretary. Prince Nicky went three steps into the room and bowed, straightened, and waited.

The room was large enough for fifteen or twenty to sit comfortably with one larger chair that the king used; not quite a throne, but it said clearly who was in charge. King William IV was there with Duke Aggradon and Lawrence, Earl of Ulle. They noticed him, but continued their conversation in low voices he couldn’t overhear.

Nicky had time to study the three men in front of him. The king was looking more like an old man—his hair grayer, his paunch larger, his face more lined, but his eyes seemed sharp, and his shoulders were just as broad; he was still a powerful figure.

Aggradon had never looked like a fighter. He appeared to be everyone’s favorite uncle—white-haired and bearded and usually smiling. Nicky knew he was an expert at genealogy and Anglian history, and he had always been friendly to Nicky, even when he was quite young. He was looking older too, more wrinkled, and he moved more slowly than Nicky remembered from the last time he had seen him up close. When had that been, spring, perhaps?

The earl was nearly a stranger to him. The man was pale, tall, and lean, middle-aged with soft hands with a smear of ink on one finger. He was a scholar perhaps, but there was muscle there too. Brains and brawn, so not a good man to cross.

Eventually, the king looked at him and beckoned. Nicky walked the rest of the way over to stand three paces in front of his father and bow again. The king nodded in return and turned back to his advisors. Finally, after more whispers, William turned back to his youngest son.

“Nicky, you are going to be married,” he announced.

Prince Nicky blinked and opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. Prince Richard had told him never to contradict the king, and Nicky tried to listen to his older brother’s advice; it was usually sound.

Carefully he said, “Your Majesty, I am not of age yet.”

The king looked at the earl, who whispered to him. King William turned back and said, “The girl will be chosen and come to court by spring. You will have time to get to know each other, and then you will go on your Progress together, which will take several months. When you become of age, you will complete your knighthood, and then you will marry.”

The earl added, “That would put the wedding in midwinter next year. We could combine it with the Year End celebration.”

Duke Maximillian suggested, “Perhaps the pictures?” At the king’s nod, the duke rose and handed Nicky four sketches. “They’re all Anglian ladies of good family and excellent lineage. Do you have a preference?” he asked.

Nicky looked over four drawings of girls that pretty much looked alike to him. In fact, three of their faces looked almost exactly alike. One picture had a soft, warm glow to it, and the girl seemed exceptionally lovely. A cold frisson ran down his back. After the first moment of surprise, Nicky smoothed his face into a bland mask. A glowing sketch was not natural, that was magic, which was illegal. And someone was doing it right in front of the king.

The prince looked up casually at the three men in front of him. The king was reading a piece of paper, and the duke smiled back at him encouragingly, but the earl…the earl was staring at him and appeared to be concentrating fiercely. Nicky looked back down at the sketches. What should he do?

Definitely not select the glowing picture. He shouldn’t have been able to detect the glow, but Nicky could do a little magic himself; nothing complicated or difficult like this trick though. He couldn’t accuse the earl of anything either. He had no proof, just his own perceptions, and admitting he could detect the magic would require he admit to magic himself. He definitely did not want to do that; in Anglia, they burned witches, no exceptions.

Nicky concentrated on the pictures. Everyone was waiting for him; he had to select one of the three that looked alike, but what rationale could he give for his choice? But they didn’t look alike, not entirely. Their faces were nearly the same, but that was all. He quickly made a decision.

“This one,” he said, peering at the name written in the corner. “Elizabeth Stratton.”

He passed them back to the duke, who was beaming. The king looked like he didn’t care one way or the other, but the earl was glaring at him.

“Why that one?” the earl demanded. He held up the picture that had glowed, now perfectly normal. “This is Alice, daughter of Duke Montexter. Isn’t she much lovelier than the others?”

Nicky shrugged. “Oh, I wasn’t looking at their faces,” he lied blandly. “I looked at their hands. See, this one has a handkerchief twisted up in hers, and this other one has one hand gripping the other. They are nervous, they lack confidence. That one, Alice, has such long fingernails I’m quite sure she has never done anything useful at all. Elizabeth, though, has her hands relaxed, and her nails are long enough to be ladylike but short enough to embroider or play the harpsichord or something. I like that.”

The earl pushed back at him. “But you wouldn’t refuse to wed if the Council chose one of the other girls?”

“Oh, I would never refuse a royal command, but I think I would be happier with the Stratton girl.” Prince Nicky smiled innocently back at the earl, knowing full well he had just agreed to obey his father, but not the Council. He didn’t actually care which girl was selected, he didn’t want to get married at all, as long as it wasn’t the one favored by the earl.

The king was looking through the pictures. “I think I would have picked this one, the one with the big bosoms. They all have good lineages, so I suppose whatever the boy wants, unless someone can come up with a damn good argument for one of the others.”

Prince Nicky thought perhaps he should say something about his swordsmanship. He didn’t think he would be good enough in just over a year to earn his knighthood. But while he was still contemplating admitting his failure, he was dismissed.

He bowed deeply, backed up three paces, turned, and left. He headed straight for Richard’s office, but it was dark and locked. Richard had either gone to his suite for the day, or more likely he was down in the practice arena happily giving a drubbing to any officer who cared to challenge him.

Prince Nicky scuffed the floor in disappointment and returned to his room. He took off his dressy clothes and left them draped over a chair and put on the suit he had been wearing earlier in the day. He flopped down on his bed to think.

He had expected to have years yet before he was called on to do any princely duties. Crown Prince Edward hadn’t married until he was twenty-one, Richard had married at twenty, and Arthur was still single at twenty-one. Well, Arthur probably wouldn’t ever get married, so this was his fault. It should have been his turn to get matched up for the good of the realm. But his mystical, religious bent disqualified him from much of anything except becoming a priest or monk or something like that.

Princess Wilhemina had been seventeen when she had been married off to Prince Frederick of Drusia, but that was different. They often married the princesses off early, and the alliance was crucial just then. Well, except Princess Anne was still single at eighteen. But the rumor was she would be marrying next summer, but no one was sure to whom yet.

So why did they have to marry him off as soon as he turned sixteen? It wasn’t fair. As soon as he got to be an adult, he had to go through the preparation and rigors of the knighthood ceremony, and then they were going to tie him down with a wife. He was never going to get to be a free man, able to do as he pleased without being nagged or told what to do by someone.

He knew what Richard would say to him. It was his duty to take whatever he was commanded to do and do his best with it. Easy for him to say, he got to do what he loved best every day, and he and Princess Giselle seemed happy together. Having a Franckish wife was a good alliance and had improved Richard’s ability to speak that language remarkably. Too bad they didn’t have any children yet; Nicky knew Richard wanted sons to train and daughters to spoil.

The young prince rolled over on his stomach and told himself to forget about the whole getting married thing. And the earl, what could he do about him? If he really had been doing magic he was far more skilled at it than Nicky was, and he wasn’t doing any harm with it, was he? Well, his attempt to influence the selection of Nicky’s intended hinted at something, but it could just be politics. There was always maneuvering going on at court. Just because he could make a sketch look attractive didn’t make him evil or anything in spite of the law.

The whole marriage thing was over a year away. He couldn’t do anything about the earl, and his fifteenth birthday was in three weeks. He should be hinting about what he wanted for gifts, not worrying about things he couldn’t do anything about.

He definitely needed a new horse. His little mare was sweet, but he was getting too tall for her, and he needed something spirited that he could ride on hunts. He couldn’t go on a hunt until he was an adult, but if he got the horse this year he would have time to get used to it and could show off in front of whichever blasted girl they pushed off on him.

Hmm, perhaps, he was thinking about this wrong. He shouldn’t just impress her, he should dominate her, get her to do what he wanted rather than the other way around. He hadn’t recognized any of the four girls in the sketches, which meant none of them had spent any time at court and would probably be intimidated just being here.

He imagined some little delicate lady from the country, awed at the splendor of the court and doting on his every word. That wouldn’t be so bad, and as her husband, she would have to obey him and do whatever he said. And he was a prince; he would outrank any Anglian woman except for his stepmother and sisters, so his hypothetical wife would definitely do whatever he said without arguing, right?

Nicky rolled back over onto his back and laced his fingers behind his head. Maybe getting married could be a good thing. He had never been with a woman, but from the way men talked about it, sex was very enjoyable—at least for the man.

He suddenly sat up. He had never been with a woman. He wouldn’t know what he was doing on his wedding night, and his wife would realize that he was just a child—no, he would be a knight by then and an adult, and he had plenty of time to get some experience in that area. He would talk to Richard about it tomorrow.

There was a patterned knock on his door—rap, pause, three quick raps, pause, and rap. That was Anne, it was their secret signal. He quickly cleared his mind of sexual thoughts and hoped his half-sister couldn’t see anything in his face as he opened the door.

Anne was a typical Warwick, long red-blond hair piled up on top of her head, brown eyes, pale skin, and a sturdy lean build. She strode in and closed the door behind her, turning on him angrily. What had he done now?

“Henry Nicholas Warwick, I am ashamed of you, picking on poor little Hal like that.”

Nicky stared at her. “Who the heck is Hal?”

“The little page boy you frightened half to death? He was practically in tears when he got back to the page master, and it took an hour to get the story out of him.” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

Nicky hated when she did that. She wasn’t going to accept any argument or excuse. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He had never known his mother, but Anne had sort of taken over the role in the nursery when she was six and he was three.

“Not good enough,” she said sternly.

“I can’t apologize, I’m a prince.” That sounded whiney, even to his own ears.

“Exactly, so you shouldn’t have done it in the first place. For the next three days you are going to be extra gracious to all the pages, and when you see Hal again, you will do something nice for him.”

“Do you have to be so bossy?”

“Yes, someone has to teach you how to behave, or how will you ever learn?”

Nicky gave a dramatic sigh. “All right, I’ll be nice to the pages, even that little wet noodle Hal. Now, have you heard what the king is doing to me?”

Anne shook her head and sat down in a chair without clothes piled on it, and Nicky sat cross-legged on the bed. Those were their usual confidence-sharing positions.

“I’m going to get married, right after I turn sixteen and earn my knighthood!”

Anne’s jaw dropped, but then she recovered. “Who? From what country?”

“Anglia. I don’t know who, they showed me four sketches and made me pick one, but the Council hasn’t decided yet.”

Anne nodded thoughtfully. Nicky sat forward. “You know something, don’t you; give.”

“That’s why I’m not engaged yet. They’re holding me in reserve.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, Nicky, you’re brighter than that. Think about the succession.”

Nicky blinked at her a couple of times and spoke slowly. “Both Edward and Richard have been married for years, but neither has any children. Wilhemina does though. Don’t her four count?”

“No, their father is Drusian, and so are they. Anglia would never accept any of them as king or queen. Any attempt to Crown one of them would lead to instant rebellion.”

“Arthur isn’t ever going to have children, so it’s up to us to continue the line, unless the king manages to sire another child with Queen Isabella.”

“It’s been nearly ten years. I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Anne said softly. She felt a little sorry for Isabella, an Ibarran princess married at a young age to an old king.

Prince Nicky nodded. “I suppose you’re right, but what’s the rush? Edward is only thirty-one. He’ll rule for years before an heir becomes a necessity.”

“The king is getting old. I’m sure he wants to see the line secure before his health fails. And there are rumors, discontented rumors, that our family is cursed or has lost its vitality, and the line will die out after us. A child of yours, or of mine if I marry an Anglian, would stop that cold.”

“And if neither of us produces an heir either, the line will die out?”

“Nicky, there are lords in this land whose bloodline is just as good as ours according to some people, and they have houses full of children. If there isn’t an heir soon, they may not wait for Edward to die. They could decide the Crown needs to go to a stronger, more vigorous line now.”

“Civil war,” Nicky said grimly. Anne nodded, and he flopped back on the bed. Then he started to laugh and sat up again.

“The fate of the kingdom rests on my wanger!”

“Nicholas!” Anne exclaimed in a scandalized voice. Then she started to giggle too. “And if yours fails, then on my womb.”

“Hey, my wanger would never fail.”

He got a raised eyebrow for that statement and blushed. “Okay, I don’t really know if it would fail or not, but that’s one of the things I’m going to ask for for my birthday. A test run, you know?”

Anne shook her head and stood up. “I don’t want to hear about that sort of thing, so if you do a ‘test run,’ don’t tell me. Just don’t get the pox.”

“Um, I also want a hunter like yours. I can’t join the hunt until I’m sixteen, but I should practice on a better horse before my betrothed shows up, whoever she is.”

Anne shook her head. “We’re discussing serious issues of state, and you want to talk about birthday presents? Really?”

Nicky nodded vigorously. “Sure. I know what’s really important, and that’s getting good stuff for my birthday.”

“Prince Nicky, you give royalty a bad name,” Anne said jokingly. “But I’ll think about it. If you can be good and do your schoolwork and not tease the little ones until your birthday, perhaps, just perhaps, I might just get you something special.”

He grinned. “You’d get me a hunter?” he asked eagerly.

“I’m not telling, you’ll have to wait and see, but it’s something you’ll like, I promise.”

“Okay, it’s a deal, and then next year I’ll save the kingdom.”

“I might just hold you to that,” Anne said seriously as she left his room.

Nicky made sure to notice the pages for the next few days, and when he spotted Hal, he stopped the boy and, as soon as the page was done bowing, bent down so they were on the same level. The prince explained he had only been teasing, and of course Hal wouldn’t be punished if he did his job well, and in time he would get used to the different personalities in the palace. That was as close as he could manage to an apology.

Nicky offered him a silver piece for his trouble, but Hal stoutly refused, saying the page master had made it clear they were not to accept tips. Nicky sent him on his way then, but went and spoke to the page master, explained what had happened, and offered the silver again.

The page master was an old man, an ex-page himself, who organized, scheduled, and trained the pages. He was reluctant to take the prince’s coin, but he finally did; Nicky got the impression it was more for his benefit than Hal’s.

“Your Highness, the coin will certainly be welcome to young Hal, and we don’t want any of the royalty feeling bad about the pages. And the boy is the sole support of his mother, you know. Only three of her children survived. Her daughter ran off with a tinker, and her other son is in prison for theft. Hal came by himself to the palace kitchens and talked his way into a job as a spit boy. But the little rascal has such a good memory the cooks were soon using him as much to run messages as to turn the spits. When I heard of that, naturally I looked into it and tested the boy and then stole him away from the cooks to be a page.”

Nicky nodded through the long recitation, his eyes somewhat glazing over. He didn’t care that much about Hal, but he certainly had more respect for the young lad afterward.

Prince Nicky went back to his room, thinking about what he would have done if he had been born a poor commoner in Hal’s position. He honestly didn’t know if he would have had the little boy’s courage and determination to work his way to a respectable position at such a young age. He could only hope that he would have done as well.

But if it was that hard to succeed as a commoner, how much harder must it be to be a good prince?