‘Good night, Doren. The Gods keep you, too. And thank you.’
She heard the door close softly and knew right at that moment that she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
‘My Lady, it is nearly dawn!’ Doren was now reduced to shaking the comatose girl – my, how she snored! A nice surprise for her future husband indeed!
‘Ah, at last you are coming round.’
‘Xhenafa take you – it is still dark!’ wailed the girl, desperately trying to pull the sheet over her head.
‘The heralds have arrived; your father will be here in less than half an hour!’
She sat up. All brown hair and large brown eyes, her pale skin spattered with freckles – possibly the most despised freckles in the world.
‘Oh!’ she said, deflated. ‘I suppose I had better get dressed then.’
‘Yes, my Lady, and quickly!’
Twenty minutes later, after changing into a rich, dark-blue dress that probably cost more than Doren saw in several years, she stood in the courtyard by the gate, which was opened with the
portcullis raised. She was shivering in the cold of the new morning. The sky was tinged pink and, although some fitful stars could still be seen, the night was in abeyance. The courtyard itself was
still dark and shadowed but, as Ceriana looked up, the light caught the white pennants on the Archer’s Tower and slowly began to slide down the grey, moss-covered stones towards them. Her
mother was there, along with Doren, Lady Catherine and various assembled courtiers and knights. The seneschal, Berek, a vigorous grey-haired man with a hawk nose, was trying to arrange everyone
into a semblance of order. He had had rushes scattered over where the ladies now stood as, given the propensity for geese (she could hear them now) and pigs to run freely over the courtyard, there
was a good chance that one of them would ruin their expensive light shoes by stepping into something nasty.
Ceriana’s hair was loose, falling almost to her waist; she had had no time to pin or braid it. When it came to matters of personal appearance she was most particular, not letting Doren or
any other handmaiden do her hair, colour her eyes or cheeks, or put on her brooches and necklaces. She wore a brooch now; it had an ornate silver setting in which a large green gem resided. Her
father had given it to her as a sixteenth birthday present; she wore it often and was determined to make sure her father could see it. She knew a green gem on a blue dress was not an ideal
combination, but her father had no fashion sense whatsoever and would not pick her up on it.
‘Don’t slouch, child,’ her mother said to her, disapproval oozing from every pore.
Ceriana stiffened her back immediately, trying to stand as erectly as one befitting her status should. As she was the last (and least important) of four children, the mother–daughter bond
had never been particularly strong. Her mother had devoted most of her time to Dominic and Giselle, the eldest daughter, leaving Ceriana somewhat neglected and with plenty of time on her hands.
This she filled with walks around the castle, wild romantic daydreams and the infernal embroidery which Catherine seemed to like so much. Her father, though, was another case entirely, doting on
her whenever time allowed. She was a thin, slight girl, different to her sisters and he always seemed to think that she needed extra protection. Her mother frowned on all this, believing that
indulgence was wasted on a girl whose only duty in life was to marry properly. This was why it seemed to Ceriana a slight betrayal on her father’s part that he should be discussing marrying
her off. She did understand that he would have to do something about it eventually but she had hoped for a couple more years before the inevitable happened.
She squinted ahead of her. The castle drawbridge was lowered as usual so the ditch surrounding the castle could be crossed; it could be filled with water in times of war, she had heard, although
she had never seen it herself. Over the ditch the drawbridge connected to a cobbled road which ran straight ahead for nearly a mile; either side of it were many tightly packed ramshackle cottages.
A castle supported a whole community of craftsmen, labourers, vintners, butchers, cheese-makers and other suppliers of goods and provender, and they all had to live somewhere. Doren’s family
home was among them, although she stayed in the castle most nights now her children were older. Eventually the road bent eastwards behind a low hill and it was here that most eyes were
directed.
Then, just as Ceriana’s fingers were so cold that she imagined them as stalactites in a cave, she saw them.
Two horsemen, mailed in bright silver, lances held high so their pennants flew proudly in the breeze, were the first people to emerge from behind the hill. More similarly attired knights brought
up the rear of the column, but between them were other horsemen, not armoured but wearing rich velvet doublets of varying colour, partially concealed under heavy riding cloaks. At their head and
becoming more recognisable as he drew nearer was a tall man in a black cloak, trousers and riding boots. His face was characterful, strong and stern, lined in such a manner as to give an impression
not so much of age but of power and experience. His still brown hair and eyes marked him as a Hartfield, characteristics that had been passed on to his youngest daughter, though not to his son, who
was altogether darker. As he passed by the houses lining the road, people, both young and old, came out and cheered; some women even threw flowers on to the road before him and so it was that
Nicholas, forty-third Duke of Hartfield, returned home.
Ceriana ducked under her mother’s restraining arm and ran towards the horses as they finished crossing the drawbridge. ‘Father!’ she called, her face flushed despite
herself.
He reined in his horse, swung himself off the saddle and went to meet her. ‘Ah, you are wearing your brooch, my little one.’
‘Of course, Father, you know it is my favourite.’ She inhaled the scents of horse, leather and sweat and thought them the best in the world.
‘Oh well, if you already have a favourite, then there is no point giving you this.’ He opened a gloved hand and held out his latest acquisition for her. There, dangling on a chain of
pure gold, was a brilliant-blue sapphire. The sun, which now shone brightly on the courtyard, made its many facets glitter like the feathers on an Erskon kingfisher. She barely suppressed a
squeal.
‘Thank you, Father. That is so beautiful. Where did you get it?’
‘A gift from Ludo Gerlig. His estates include mines in the Derannen Mountains where it was found.’
‘Quite a gift, Father; I hope it didn’t come at a price.’
‘Everything comes at a price, my dear,’ he said. Although she was still focusing on the gem, the look of regret that fleetingly crossed his face as he spoke did not escape her.
‘Now, I have business to attend to with Berek and your mother. You and Lady Catherine can go back indoors and I will speak to you properly once I have eaten.’
Ever the obedient daughter she curtsied and left them, still clutching her present and all the while trying to forget the feeling that the executioner’s axe hung poised above her neck.
She did not go down for the noon meal, feigning a headache. Instead, she retired to her room, but soon got fractious stomping around like a bear in a pen until her head really did start to hurt.
She was just about to wander back down to the great hall, claiming a miraculous recovery, when there was a knock at the door. She bid the caller enter, knowing his identity without even looking
up.
‘Are you feeling better, little one?’ Her father’s tone had a sardonic edge.
‘Um, yes, I mean no, not really.’
‘We can talk later, if you want.’
‘No, Father; please, if you have any news, tell it to me now.’
‘Very well.’ She was sitting demurely on her bed; he pulled the chair from her dresser so that he could sit facing her.
‘Did you hear me earlier when I said I had to speak to Berek?’ she nodded. ‘Well, my discussions involved making preparations at Erskon House for a visit from the Grand Duke
some six weeks from now.’
‘I didn’t know he was due to go there; he normally only visits in high summer, and that is now passed.’
‘No,’ Nicholas said, ‘he doesn’t normally, but this is different because I will be hosting one of the biggest events of the year.’
The axe had fallen; she spoke, knowing his reply long before it came. ‘It is my wedding, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, my dear, I am afraid it is.’
‘Well, then, I suppose you had better tell me all about it.’
‘Indeed, now where shall I start? First of all, I had many things to discuss with the Grand Duke and had decided to leave your nuptials until the end of my stay; I had half a hope that it
would be forgotten, what with the eastern war becoming a priority again, but it was not to be. The night before last we were at dinner, myself, the Grand Duke, Duke Edrington, Duke Marschall,
Barons Duneck, Fillebrand, Gerlig, Richney and others, when out of the blue the Grand Duke spoke up, saying to me “What about that daughter of yours? Sorted a husband for her yet?” I
replied that I get petitions for you every day and was in no hurry to arrange anything. There was a groan at this, half the barons at the table had a son they wanted to foist on me. At that point,
though, Leontius, the Grand Duke, interceded. ‘I am sorry my, friend; I would not normally do this to you without a private discussion first but it so happens I have a match for her.’
Duke Nicholas stopped and looked directly into Ceriana’s large eyes. ‘I cannot tell you how my heart sank at this news. I was hoping to hold on to you for at least a year or two more,
and now I was not even to get to choose a husband for you.’
She met his gaze steadily. ‘Go on.’
‘Leontius has been Grand Duke for nearly two years now, as you know. At first, knowing how well I got on with his father, he readily listened to what I had to say. Alas, this last year or
so I have seen my influence waning. He is a young man and it is the younger nobility that mostly have his ear. For years, for example, I have argued for a negotiated settlement to this pointless
and costly eastern war, Leontius, though, now wants a decisive victory without understanding that one is hardly possible without great sacrifice. It is frustrating – he has the makings of a
fine ruler but the advice he listens to is, I feel, leading him down paths best left untrodden.’
‘Water, Father?’ Ceriana handed him a bowl into which she had just dispensed water from a jug on her bedside table. His voice was getting a little husky. He readily accepted, drank,
and continued.
‘Well, apart from you, the two main reasons why I was seeing the Grand Duke was to discuss reinforcing the war in the east, details of which I will not bore you with now, and to discuss
the latest unrest among the northern barons. As you know, they are not native Tanarese but rather are descended from the men of Kibil who were given safe haven here when they fled from their Chiran
conquerors some two hundred and fifty years ago. The northern territories are quite poor; the coast is rugged and rocky with many small islands, each of them a baronial holding in their own right.
Recent harvests haven’t been good up there and local discontent has been fuelled by many of the more outspoken barons. It is an odd situation. They would never openly declare against the
Grand Duke – they are nowhere near powerful enough – but they may rebel in some other form, demanding more autonomy or more control over their taxes. We know that a heavy-handed
response to any rebellion with ringleaders executed and troops sent in would only make the matter worse; force is at best an ultimate sanction only to be used when other methods have failed, and
with the war in the east already draining resources a protracted struggle on two fronts is not what the nation needs.’
Ceriana could see what he was driving at. ‘I am to marry one of them?’
The Duke of Hartfield nodded.
‘But, Father, the north is ... is the middle of nowhere. The people are poor and backward; some even say that brothers marry sisters there and all their children have six fingers and
toes!’
He managed a weak laugh. ‘Not all rumours are true. They are grim and stoic folk, yes, but they are not without honour. Indeed, they have so much of it they can be difficult to deal with
at times.’
‘So the Grand Duke wants to use me to ... to bribe these blackguards into behaving themselves. Am I not more important than to be traded off to a fisherman who has never seen the inside of
a bath?’
‘Alas, Ceriana, you are my fourth child and outside my castle and lands you are seen as nowhere near as important as my son, or even my other daughters. You are, however, important enough
to be used to assuage the northerners.’
She raised her voice in frustration. ‘But I will never see you again, Father; the north is an age of travel away – you never visit there!’
‘On the contrary, Leontius is hoping I will visit regularly, backed up with a large quantity of knights and men at arms, just to show the locals the strength of his supporters.’
Her shoulders sagged; there was no point in fighting. ‘Well, who is this husband to be then?’ she asked tremulously.
‘He commands the island of Osperitsan, the largest and most powerful of their baronetcies. His name is Wulfthram and he is seen as the voice of the north. His previous wife died three
years ago – disease claimed her.’
‘Does he have children? How old is he?’
‘No children, no legitimate ones anyway. As to his age I am unsure, but the general reckoning at court is that he is about twice as old as you.’
‘Twice as old,’ she said, half to herself. ‘Any more bad news? Have all his teeth fallen out? Does his breath smell like a village latrine in summer? Please do not say that he
has six fingers.’
‘I have met him barely and have no clear recollection, but Leontius speaks quite well of him, apart from his tendency to rebellion of course. Not your typical northerner were his words; he
even shaves his beard apparently.’
‘Sounds like you are trying to soften the blow,’ she said. ‘How is Mother taking it?’
‘How do you imagine?’ he sighed. ‘He is not the husband she envisaged for you. I have spent the last hour feeding her wildthorn berries and trying to calm her down.’