empress of storms (3 page)

Flavia sighed. “Forgive me, mistress. I suppose I wanted something better for you. And I know your parents felt the same way.”

“I know. But politics doesn’t always allow for love. This marriage will benefit our countries, and that’s the most important thing.” Her gut curled a bit, but she forced out the words. “Love isn’t necessary between us.”

A soft snort from Flavia was her only answer as the maid continued brushing her hair.

****

Danaë entered the palace dining hall on Darius’s arm, head held high but with a pleasant smile. The room itself was a long rectangle lined with high stained glass windows representing kings and queens from the country’s history. Each end of the hall held battle standards in various colors. She knew the standard in russet and cream with the gold bar running the length belonged to Matthias’s family, the Laurents.
I wonder if he has a window marked out for himself already.

Two long tables stretched the length of the hall, gleaming with silver plate, goblets, and polished pitchers. The seats were already filled with Ypresian nobility and wedding guests from other countries, all of them turning to watch her entrance.

“Am I late?” Danaë whispered through her smile to her brother.

“Not at all. I think they’re just eager for dinner,” Darius whispered back. “I’ve spotted at least five ambassadors. If they don’t take advantage of free food they’re booted from the Ambassador’s Guild.”

Danaë’s smile transformed into a grin just as Darius guided her to the table where Matthias already sat, an empty space on his right.

Her husband-to-be got to his feet at her approach. She gave him her hand and he bowed over it. “Welcome, your majesty,” he said.

“Thank you, your majesty,” she said, giving him a precise curtsey. “I think we’d better sit down before we’re besieged by starving guests.”

His mouth twitched at that. “The gods forbid,” he muttered in good humor.

At a nod from him servants began to stream into the room bearing steaming platters of Ypresian and Hellene delicacies. Danaë’s mouth watered when she spotted a dish of golden baked fish decorated with the thinnest slices of lemon. All she’d had since breakfast had been dried meat and a handful of nuts and raisins, and her stomach rumbled at the marvelous scent.
Remember you’re a queen. Don’t fall on your food like a starving animal.

After a whispered conference with the chamberlain Darius moved a few seats down, taking a seat next to an attractive woman with golden hair worn up in an elegant coronet of braids. Very fine lines around her eyes indicated middle age, but she wore them with grace and dignity, giving Darius and other diners a charming smile as she spoke with them. Across the table from her was a greying handsome man dressed in understated navy velvet. Danaë remembered him from the initial treaty negotiations as Andreas Verheyen, head of the King’s Council and Ypres’s equivalent of a prime minister.

“Your brother seems to be getting on well with my sister-in-law,” Matthias said.

“That’s Lady Margot?” Danaë gave the blonde woman a closer glance. She’d never met the sister of Queen Hanne, but Lady Margot Pauwels was well known as the premier hostess in Ypresian society. Being invited to one of her soirees could make a reputation—or break it. “I should speak with her after dinner.”

Matthias caught her hesitant tone and gave her a reassuring smile. “Margot is looking forward to meeting you. You needn’t worry about any ill feelings on her part.”

Danaë wondered if she could be so graceful if the situation was reversed. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

A servant picked that moment to place a steaming plate of baked fish in front of her, while another served Matthias with grilled chops. Danaë set to with a will, chatting with Matthias and the red-haired man with the impressive mustache on her other side who introduced himself as Commander Bardahlson of the Ypresian cavalry. In between bites she glanced around the table, noting the expressions on the other dinner guests. Her own council had kept her well-informed on her new country’s politics, and she knew that some of the nobility and members of the King’s Council weren’t in favor of the Hellene marriage, as they called it. It had been one thing for Danaë to marry Lukas; that merely made her the crown princess of Ypres. In time she would have born Lukas’s children and provided heirs for the throne, guaranteeing her loyalty to the country. But it was something else for her to leapfrog in status by marrying Matthias and becoming Queen of Ypres all at once.

According to covert reports, the more conservative council members had promoted the idea of persuading Danaë to take one of the higher-ranking noblemen as a husband instead, allowing Matthias to marry a Ypresian noblewoman. There were even suggestions that Lady Margot herself was in the running for the coveted spot. 

For Matthias to marry his sister-in-law was a good political move, Danaë had to admit, but there was a question as to whether the lady could still bear children. According to her reports the King’s Council had finally agreed that siring a new heir to the throne took precedence over political consolidation. The one thing no one had been able to confirm was how Matthias felt about being offered up as a matrimonial sacrifice. But judging by his lack of warmth in the courtyard, Danaë suspected she knew.

She risked a quick look at her husband-to-be. His eyes were much lighter than her own, a pale blue that could be oblique at times. Defined grooves bracketed his mouth, and another one lay between his brows. It wasn’t a face that invited small talk or humorous banter, but there was a quiet sensuality in the fullness of his lower lip that made her want to explore it with her fingertips, feel the roughness of the stubble along his jaw. She wondered if his first kiss would be gentle and tender, or full of need.

Matthias glanced at her, raising an eyebrow in silent query. She blushed and gave him a quick smile, then turned back to the cavalry commander. In the end, it didn’t matter how he felt, or how she felt for that matter. Their marriage was a political one, and that took precedence over everything else. 

She had to hope that what she had told Flavia was true, and in time Matthias would grow fond of her. If he didn’t, it would be a very long, cold marriage indeed.

****

The city of Mons had been constructed over two hundred years ago on a rise near the River Meuse, following one of the most detailed urban planning documents ever executed anywhere on the continent. The royal palace lay on the rise’s crest, with shops, offices, and churches set around it like jewels in a necklace. Residential neighborhoods had been situated well away from the artisan quarter with its stinking tanneries and dyers, and the banks of the Meuse that abutted the city proper had been turned into a long stretch of parkway, with fisheries and ports situated on either end.

Even as the city grew it followed the plan set forth by King Mads III and his chief advisor Gwendoline of Naymes. It now formed a comfortable sprawl that stretched from the banks of the Meuse to the edge of the Namur Plains. The rich grasslands off to the west were dotted with farmsteads and cattle ranches that supplied the city with much of its food and drink. More exotic foodstuffs and rich trade goods came by way of the Kasterlee Road from the east, the Achterlee Road from the west, or ported up and down the Meuse, making Mons the crossroads of Ypres.

While the palace dominated the city, its heart was the Cathedral of Rebben, a large crenellated structure that had been started soon after the city’s founding. Construction on the cathedral had progressed in fits and starts over the decades, delayed by wars, natural disasters, or internecine struggles between council and patriarchy. The original design had included two majestic towers along the front facade, meant to mimic arms rising to Ypres’s patron god Rebben in worship. One of the two towers had been finished but the other was a mere one-third its intended height, giving the cathedral an odd, hunched look. 

Nevertheless, the people of Mons loved their cathedral, unbalanced as it was, and its patriarch was fond of using it as a way of pointing out that Rebben didn’t require perfection in his people.

Reniel now stood in the sacristy, hands linked over the round jut of his belly as he watched Matthias pace the room. The king wore his wedding finery topped with an ermine-trimmed cloak, beating his crown against his thigh like a tambourine.

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Reniel asked again.

Matthias shot a black look at him. “Is a priest supposed to get a groom drunk before his wedding?”

“If it stops the groom from wearing a trough in the floor, yes.”

“You are not helping.”

“Tell me how I can help and I’ll do it.”

“Find my son. Bring him back. Make him take his rightful place at the altar.”

Not for the first time, Reniel wondered about his friend’s grief for his late wife. The king had been grief-stricken after Queen Hanne’s death, and had mourned for an entire year as was customary. But it was now three years on, and there was no sign of Matthias’s heart healing from his loss. He hadn’t expected enthusiasm about this new marriage, but neither did he expect Matthias to treat it like a raw recruit on the eve of a battle.

“You know we’ve searched for him, sire,” he said. “Both Verheyen and I have had spies roaming the continent these last three years, investigating every nook and cranny. There is no sign of him anywhere—”

“He isn’t dead,” Matthias snapped. “There’s no sign of that, either.”

Reniel bit back what he wanted to say. He had tried voicing his suspicions about Prince Lukas’s disappearance to Matthias once. The furious king refused to speak to him for six months afterwards, and still maintained a distance that pained the Patriarch. “No one is saying he’s dead, sire,” he said, choosing his words now with care. “But for whatever reason, Prince Lukas has chosen to distance himself from Ypres. We cannot change that. In the meantime, we have a treaty to fulfill.”

Matthias spread his hands. “I know that. It’s why I’m dressed up in this frippery.”

“And wonderful frippery it is, too.” Reniel quipped, then grew sober. “Tell me, is Danaë truly that distasteful to you? She’s far lovelier than you led me to believe, and she seemed charming and well-spoken at dinner.”

Some of the king’s agitation leaked away. “I have no issue with Queen Danaë,” he said after a long moment. “She is … attractive. And she’s an intelligent, competent ruler.”

“Then what’s the problem, sire?”

The king grimaced. “I feel as if I’m cheating on Hanne,” he admitted.

Reniel sensed the grief and loss beneath his king’s words. “That, I cannot help you with,” he said with all due sympathy. “But ask yourself this. Would Queen Hanne wish you to sit beside an empty throne until the end of your days?”

Matthias clenched his jaw muscles. “No.”

“And she was one of the primary proponents of the union with Hellas, was she not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then. If you don’t wish to do this for yourself, then do it for Hanne,” Reniel said. “Wed Danaë and keep our trade routes to Hellas open.” Craftily, he added, “It’s not as if she’ll be living here anyway. You only have to see her a few times a year after this.”

He’d chosen the right words. Matthias nodded and clapped the crown back on his head. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

****

Danaë smothered a wince as her brother boosted her back into the saddle for the ride to the cathedral. The bed in her chambers had been comfortable, but did little to ease the ache in her backside.

Darius’s eyes twinkled as he watched her try to get comfortable. Leaning up, he murmured, “Should we stick a feather bed under you? Or fetch one of those sturdy servants?”

She could feel her expression icing over. “You do realize I can have you executed, yes?”

“How bloodthirsty. Have you been taking lessons from Prince Marcus?”

“Just get on your damned horse, Darius.”

“As you wish, sister dear.” Bowing, he headed to his grey stallion, mounting it with a marked lack of pain that she envied. The rest of the Hellene contingent climbed onto their mounts with varying levels of enthusiasm. At a wave from Darius, the palace guards swung open the gates and their party set off for the cathedral.

The route was a simple one to follow, as it was lined with thousands of cheering people shouting good wishes and throwing an absolute blizzard of flower petals onto the cobbled street. Members of the Royal Army stood at attention all along the route, saluting her with pikes as she passed.

Her racing heart began to slow, eased by the enthusiastic welcome of her soon-to-be subjects. She smiled and nodded when a father held up his goggling child over the crowds for a better view.

Darius nudged his mount closer, leaning towards her ear. “They appear to love you already.”

“I suspect it’s more the promise of free food and drink than me,” Danaë said. But even purchased good will was better than her nightmares of a grim crowd watching her procession to replace their beloved Queen Hanne.

The uneven towers of the cathedral soon appeared. Her brother brought Danaë’s horse to a halt in front of the marble steps, hopping down to assist her dismount. She ignored the urge to rub her bottom and waved to the cheering, applauding city folk. Taking a deep breath, she rested her hand on Darius’s extended arm and climbed the steps to the cathedral.

The rows of carved oak benches on either side of the cathedral were full of the noble families of Ypres and representatives of the other eight realms. She knew from the seating chart that Lady Margot would be sitting in the front right pew next to Chief Councilor Verheyen, her official escort for the event. But all Danaë could see was the tall blond man in russet and cream standing in front of the altar. Her heartbeat sped up again as she and Darius made their way down the aisle to Patriarch Reniel and Matthias.

The king nodded as Darius handed her to him, his expression polite but closed off. Well, at least he’s not recoiling in horror. She decided to smile at him as the Patriarch cleared his throat and began the ceremony.

The Ypresian wedding vows were similar enough in form to the Hellene that she had no problem following along. Once they had exchanged promises to love, honor, and cherish one another, Matthias took her left hand and slipped an exquisite gold ring set with a sapphire onto her ring finger.