Tag: bachelorettes

A su Excelentísimo Señor Duque Gisgo Barca de Murcia, 

Your daughter writes to you, safe and in comfort, once again from the warm hospitality of the D’Angelines.  The apartments they have given to us remain comfortable and pleasant with a good view of the gardens.  Winter is coming here, the winds are colder, and I can see the gardeners working hard to preserve the beauty of the land and protect it from the chill of the season.

Your honorable brother sends his duty and his respect, but I can see in him the thin lines of impatience.  The great Hasdrubal Magon Barca de Cartagena is not a man of patience, preferring action and fire over the soothing winds of negotiation.  He tells me often his favorite line from the poem as he paces before the fireplace: “It is not in the palace court,/Amid the throng of ladies bright,/That the good soldier, by his tongue,/Proves himself valorous in the fight.” But never in his impatience does he forget his obedience and honor to you, Don Gisgo. He defends my honor among these D’Angelines and speaks on my behalf with skill to the D’Angeline lords and courtiers here.

But no matter how he makes friends and suggests the benefit of a strong alliance with Aragonia, it seems there is no answer rising to the question of who the Courcel King will choose for his wife.  These D’Angelines enjoy their gossip, and I have heard the whispers and the speculation that the King does not wish to wed any of us and is waiting until we tire of waiting for him and return home of our own will so he cannot be said to be an ungenerous host.  He has been very generous, and in the moments that I have spoken with him, he has been kind.  But it is clear to me that my sisters in this quest will only be offered his hand and not his heart.  This is something that I think those of us who are not D’Angeline knew to expect.  But it does not give peace to those that grew up with the teaching of their Angel Elua that they ought to love whoever and however they wish.  As the poet says in the poem, “The Jealous King,” “But others spread the news, that flew like fire from tongue to tongue,/That the King was doting-mad with love, for then the King was young.”

Be eased, Father—in the moments that I have met with the Swan King, I have done nothing to compromise my honor or the modest defense of my virtue that you have done so well to teach me. The other ladies who have come to seek his hand and the crown it brings seem, in some ways, to embrace the D’Angeline ways in an attempt to prove themselves a good queen to these people, but I cannot embrace the customs that are so strange to me.  For I have seen the famous prostitutes of this land, those that are called Servants of Naamah, and I hear the whispers that the king of these lands is in love with one of them.  But I have seen them and the way they display so much of their skin.  The marks of their position are inked into their skin, and they are fully displayed on their backs.  In comparison, I am sure my fashions from Qart Hadast seem matronly.  But I have to wonder that, Servants as they are, if it is their Lady’s demand that they show so much of themselves? If they were not bound to her service, how many of them would choose to reveal their skin and flaunt their hair as they do?  Perhaps it is just their D’Angeline way instead of the styles of their profession.  I cannot know, I am not of their people, so I ought not to speculate without kindness in my thoughts.

To quote Celin’s “Farewell,” “Ye balmy winds of heaven, whose sound is in the rippling trees,/Whose scented breath brings back to me a thousand memories.”  It is often my comfort in the time I spend listening to the music the D’Angeline musicians play. I was reading it when the King came to sit with me.  I had seen him when I was presented by my honorable uncle to the court.  But now he approached me without the rest of the court and sat with me—under the supervision of your brother Hasdrubal—to speak one on one.  He was courteous and kind, and it seemed he understood some of our customs, for though these D’Angelines greet all people with kisses, he made no move and seemed to have no intent to touch me.  He was warm and welcoming, inquiring about the poems I was reading and whether I was happy with the time I was spending in Terre D’Ange.  We made pleasant enough conversation, but Father, honesty is the greatest treasure of a virtuous woman—I do not think I can be happy here.  To live in Terre D’Ange is to live in a place where the modesty and virtue I hold so dear and have been taught my entire life will not be understood.  It is not just the skin of the courtesans and the kissing of nobles, it is woven into the fabric of life here, and I cannot believe that I would be a good queen for this country and the people when so much of their precious way of life is against what I believe.

I know what you will say, Father, I hear your voice in my mind clear as I heard it the day I departed home.  You will quote to me “The Letter of the King,” since I am here to present myself to a king, and remind me to “Then dismiss thy anxious musings, let them with the wind away,/As the gloomy clouds are scattered at the rising of the day.” But allow your daughter the honesty of this letter as I write that I miss you.  Your stern face is often in my thoughts, as is the countryside of home and the beautiful glory of your Murcia.  I miss our city: the warm stone and the blue sea and the bright flowers.  I understand my duty here and the benefit of an alliance with the Courcel King, but I am a daughter of Murcia not of the Angel-Land, and while they have a famous poet who mourned the loss of her homeland while in exile, our poems also extol the beauty of our lands, and it is those that I am turning to in the long days away from home.

Let me come home, Father.  I have no chance to win his hand, nor do I want to spend the rest of my life here.  It will be an uncomfortable and unhappy life, and I cannot believe you would choose that for me over the peace and joy of a marriage that will suit me. When I wake in the morning, my first thought is for home.  When I sleep at night it is facing southwest so that I can imagine I can see Qart Hadast from here.  I understand Celin all the more when he writes in his “Farewell” poem, “I see thee shining from afar,/As in heaven’s arch some radiant star./Amilcar, queen and crown of loveliness,/Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress.”

The comfort I have now are only the poems I read and the attendants I have brought.  This place is not for me, and I would not make a kingdom suffer for a queen unsuited to their tradition.  Send me where you wilt to find a husband, but let it be in Aragonia and not this Terre D’Ange.  I pray that you will heed my plea and that your heart misses your daughter as mine misses her father and home. What I am is Aragonian, I cannot and will not become D’Angeline!

If my words will not move you, perhaps you will heed the words of the poets that you read to me when I sat upon your knee and taught me pride in name and country! “A hundred thousand favors she/In public or in private gives,/To show her lover that her life/Is Aragonia’s while she lives!”

I waste ink repeating the words and thoughts that make restless my mind. I pray that your next letter comes with it a request to return home.  That is all that will give me joy now, the treasure of returning to beautiful Aragonia!

Let Adelifa’s “Farewell” be mine to you as I close this letter—”This to an end her farewell brought,/But not her dark and anxious thought.”

In love and obedience,
Su hija,
Elissa Ylenia Barca de Cartagena
 

Niklos supposed that it was time to begin the Game of Houses in earnest. He had given his word, and that meant finding allies…or at least finding those who would not oppose the current play for politics. And where better to start than the Hall of Games? People’s tongues were surprisingly loose when they sat around a card table or throwing dice. And if you added alcohol to the mix, well, more the better. So Niklos found himself in the Palace, and he wandered through the Hall, his eyes examining the tables. He nodded to those he recognized, sometimes stopping to exchange a word or two or a greeting with the few Shahrizai cousins he spotted. He was certain he would receive information from them at some point. This was a concerted effort, and the younger cousins had been on his side for some time. He spotted a table that appeared to be just settling down and made his way toward it, shooting glares at a couple of young nobles who looked to be angling towards one of the last empty chairs.

A noble lady gestured to him to sit in the empty chair next to her, a smile on her face.

“Good evening my lord,” she said politely then offered her hand and said, “Corrian de Borlean.”

Niklos smiled faintly. He had heard stories about Corrian de Borlean, a young woman of a relatively minor house who had come to The City to play the game of courting. He was surprised she had welcomed him so warmly, but then perhaps she either didn’t realize who she had welcomed and he smirked, taking her hand and kissing the back of it lightly. “A pleasure, my Lady de Borlean…Niklos Shahrizai. I am looking forward to an interesting game tonight, aren’t you?”

Correan coughed and pulled her hand back almost too quickly. Shahrizai! Oh no, she had heard rumors about them. Why, any child in the nation grew up hearing the tale of how Melisande Shahrizai had betrayed the nation to the Skaldi and started a war. And the rumor was that the whole family was quite clannish and would support each other no matter the crime.

Niklos barely reacted as Corrian jerked her hand away. She could have had a worse reaction, he supposed. She hadn’t fled in haste or slapped him. At least he had something there. He motioned to one of the servers wandering the hall and had the man bring a bottle of wine and two glasses, offering one to Corrian. He sipped at his glass as the game progressed, attempting to engage Corrian in conversation, but she was practically mute, and she hurried away from the table as soon as was prudent. Well, that would be an interesting game to play. He continued for a half hour or so, winning just enough to make it a worthwhile evening. He hadn’t heard much in the way of rumors, aside from some derisive comments about a Night Court adept on the throne, but those might soon change as well.

As he wandered away from the table, the wine having been left, he pondered. Corrian was attractive and might just be to the King’s preference. He would have to learn more about her. Perhaps there was potential there after all. And her reaction was nowhere near the worst he had received at points.

~

The invitation from the lord d’Essoms was surprising to say the least. He was a mid level lord whom she had been indirectly acquainted with for some years, but she still never expected to be invited to a private fete at his palace apartments. Nonetheless, Corrian chose to attend in style. If she hoped to someday be Queen, she would have to get used to politicking.

It was a warm fall evening, and the lord d’Essems apartments had a lovely veranda where he chose to entertain his guests. Corrian was beginning to regret the gown of bronze velvet she had chosen to wear.

The party was intimate, only a dozen or so people in attendance. The meal of roasted pheasant and autumn vegetables had been most delicious, and everyone was sitting about the veranda enjoying sherry.

Corrian had been taking pains to avoid a certain Lord Shahrizai all evening. For his part, he had been making his presence felt while not forcing himself into her path, quite the courtier’s skill.

Nik had been…amused…when he received the invitation for a dinner at d’Essoms’ palace quarters. It wasn’t that he was displeased with the request, but he thought d’Essoms was still a creature of the L’Envers, and there was enough there. He had accepted after a delay of a day, still well within a proper time, but sending a signal to d’Essoms as well. Upon his arrival, he was surprised that Lady de Borlean was also a guest of the event. He spent a good portion of the event eavesdropping on conversations and allowing himself to be drawn into certain ones where he could discuss the goings on in court and the current status of the King. He didn’t dance attendance on the man, a privilege of his family’s position, but he had met the King more than once and was quietly impressed by the fact that it appeared the King knew what he needed to look for in a partner.

As evening deepened into night the view from d’Essom’s balcony became less interesting, though the balcony remained well-lit and a number of courtiers remained out there. Niklos was passing some pleasant words with the d’Essom Lord when a gasp rose from the crowd on the balcony.

The servants were refilling half empty glasses when an owl hooted in the trees. The guests exclaimed in delight, but the newest servant who hailed from the provinces was startled. He jumped and spun, trying to make his way back inside. He never saw Corrian until the pitcher was on the floor and a stain of deep purple was spreading down the front of her gown.

Niklos moved toward Corrian with alacrity, having broken off mid-sentence with d’Essoms, pulling his cape from around his shoulders and offering it to the noblewoman with a smile. “You might avail yourself of this, my Lady, at least for the time being.” His eyes caught a surprised look on d’Essom’s face before it faded into patient curiosity.

“My gown!” Corrian said in a soft voice, both upset but trying to not make a scene.

“It does look like it might be ruined, and it’s a pity, as the color was so fetching on you. Still, perhaps, aside from my cape, I might be able to provide some assistance?” He smiled lightly, gesturing her away from the balcony door and the prying eyes of nobles who were all too interested in her reaction to such an error.

“How could you help?” She asked, more rudely than she intended.

He chuckled. “You apparently don’t know the Shahrizai too well, for all you’ve certainly heard of our exploits. First, we need to get you something to drink. Something that might relax you. Do you have a preference? I’m certain the Lord d’Essoms has an appropriate variety of beverages to be enjoyed. And then…well then we send for your maid and something you can change into. And if you don’t have something suitable, I’m certain there is something in the Shahrizai apartments that you could fit into. A number of my cousins leave all manner of effects here at the palace. If necessary, I’ll send you to the Shahrizai apartments with my valet for you to choose something.”

She looked at him with surprise, “Why would you do that for me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He responded with mock shock. “You have a need, and I’m fairly certain the Lord d’Essoms doesn’t have the capability to replace your gown immediately. I don’t have that capability either, I don’t have an Eglantine adept on call. But at least I can manage to figure out a solution for the evening.”

While they awaited the arrival of a new gown and maid, the two of them began to talk. Corrian learned that the Lord Sharizai was a lover of literature, which surprised her for some reason. And she learned that he frequented the Night Court not only for its pleasures but because he was good friends with several Dowaynes and adepts. By the time the two returned to the party for the kottabos, they had planned a trip to Bryony House the next week.

The winter had come and gone, the King had neither picked a bride, nor sent anyone home, and Gisila was still not acclimated to the D’Angeline capital. Her room had been chosen to her request: courtyard facing, two small rooms in addition to the main area. The food hadn’t even taken long to adjust to, nor had it caused her to need a new wardrobe. The heat in the city was oppressive, but her balcony was shaded, and that’s where she’d been living for the last month, where she lounged now, contemplating her life. Her D’Angeline was improving daily, though it was still a stumbling block for her.

And yet, despite all the good news she had to write home about, she still could not settle. She felt pressed in by the marble walls of the palace, and no number of day trips outside the walls made her feel like she could breathe fully. Leaving was not an option. She had treaties and trade agreements that she was working on, not to mention that her grandmother would kill her if she returned before the Royal Wedding. Even if she was not the bride, she was still the Skaldi diplomat. A trip home would have to wait. Not that she was even sure a trip home would help her.

A rolling chirp and a rustling sensation tore her from her thoughts, and she looked down into the bodice of her dress and saw the intelligent face of Thiel, her magpie. She loved the bird as much as she loved Agnetta, and lucky for her, the two birds loved each other as well. Thiel was a year old now and ideally should have flown away to find other magpies not still living in a pocket sewn into Gisila’s dress. However things were not ideal for Thiel. Her separation from her parents so young and in such a violent manner seemed to have damaged her mind as well as leaving one of her wings unable to fully extend. So living with Gisila for the rest of her life seemed to be what was best for little Thiel. Lucky for the sweet bird, Gisila was glad to give it to her.

Gisila stroked the bird’s head and helped her hop up onto Gisila’s waiting shoulder. Stroking the bird’s chest idly, Gisila wondered if their lives were parallel, if she herself was destined to be in a place that was uncomfortable to her nature. She was hampered by her status with the Skaldi, unable to live the life she’d want but also unable to imagine herself living that life. With a sigh, she got up and headed inside to read over the paperwork sent over by the head of the Weaver’s Guild. Not even the cool of the marble floor on her bare feet brought relief to her tired brain. She had to find something, and soon, to grant her some measure of peace.