The Scarecrow King: A Romantic Retelling of the King Thrushbeard Fairy Tale (4 page)

Since Imogen was the eldest, it made sense that my Father would dance with her. A kind and benevolent king might switch partners mid-dance so he could favor both of his beloved daughters, but I knew that would not happen. It would be up to me to find my own dance partner.

The music began and I looked desperately around the edge of the dance floor, until my gaze rested on a familiar face – Dunderhead (though I supposed I should stop calling him that). I immediately moved toward him and curtsied low, the invitation to dance obvious.

He took my hand and led me back out onto the dance floor. Already I could see my partner’s mother moving about in the background, whispering to other nobles about the favoritism I had shown her son this night. Dunderhead seemed a little confused by it as well, his gaze straying over to Imogen briefly before I placed my hands in his. The music swelled and we began to dance.

The dance was a stately, easy one. The steps were many but not difficult, and I executed them with slow, jerky precision. I was not graceful like Imogen, for I had no patience for dancing and flirting, and I could not seem to find the right pace for the leisurely song. My hands and feet often moved a beat ahead of the earl's own, which made my cheeks burn with embarrassment. No one would laugh at the princess – not aloud, anyhow – especially not at the Royal Engagement Ball, but I felt the shame of it to my soul.

Common
, my father's voice rang in my head.
Your common blood makes you less.

My feet faltered again, and I flushed with horror as I nearly tripped on my own hem. Only Dunderhead's strong arm kept me from falling flat on my face.

“I am… honored that you would choose me, Princess Rinda,” Dunderhead was saying as I focused on moving my clumsy feet in time to the music. “It is a great favor that you do my family.” He sounded confused and almost reluctant, and as I glanced up, his gaze slid back to Imogen.

Oh! He thought I was showing favoritism to him in regards to the marriage. How embarrassing. Normally a woman did not select a male partner for a dance – it was the height of forwardness – but my father had left me no choice, and Dunderhead had seemed like a safe option. My sweaty hang grabbed his for the next move, and I spun around him in a sea of black taffeta, nearly tripping over my own skirts. Drat. What was his name again? I racked my brain. “Dirkan…”

He gave me a puzzled look as he pulled me under his arm and began to lead me across the floor as the music changed to a faster pace. “Dondran. Earl Dondran.”

Ah, right. No wonder I couldn't recall it. It was but a skip away from Dunderhead after all. “Dondran, I picked you because I wanted to tell you that it is not I that is interested in you, but my sister.” At least I could do one good deed tonight, and I was pleased to watch his face break into an even wider smile, the uncertainty slipping away. “I have reason to suspect Princess Imogen will favor you, so if you feel anything for my sister, tonight would be the night to show your true feelings.”

“I would be very honored to marry into the House of Balinore,” he began in an excited voice, his face creasing into a handsome smile that was almost as pale as his hair.

“Let's hope you feel that way by the end of the evening,” I said quickly, then slid into a deep curtsy as the insufferable song finally ended. We nodded at each other – I reserved, Dondran ecstatic – before turning back to the dais. Imogen looked slightly confused at my choice of partners. My selection of dance partners, normally a sign of favor, was not lost on my sister. I winked at her to take the sting out of it, and she flushed, as if realizing what I was up to.

The next few dances were not ones that royalty was required to take part in. Imogen continued to dance with light, happy steps, and I was happy to see that Dunderhead had claimed her for at least one dance.

I settled for fidgeting on my throne, watching the heralds as they cataloged every family and every available bachelor at the ball. Like a merchant, tallying his wares. Lovely. My stomach turned again and I focused on Imogen. She was so happy, dancing – with Dunderhead for a second song – and she looked lovely. For a moment, I was achingly jealous that I could not find a handsome – if stupid – man to fall in love with, and to be so utterly content with myself and my position that I had not a care in the world. To be Imogen, instead of the unfortunate younger sister that was too brown and too weak in her Birthright to be of much use. The one who must drive away all the men in the kingdom so she could stay near the only person that loved her - Imogen.

Despite my misery, time passed all too quickly and before long, the heralds were bowing in front of my father, the scrolls with the names of the noble sons complete. The ballroom fell into a hush and even the strains of music died away. My father looked back at me. “Come,” he said, stepping down the dais and heading through the ballroom.

Like before, they cut a swath for my father, and one of the heralds trailed behind him. I knew that they were heading to his audience chamber, where he normally took petitions and discussed taxes with his supplicants.

Tonight they would be petitioning for my hand or Imogen's hand. Revolting.

In the most insolent way possible, I arose from my throne and smoothed my dress, then began to walk slowly after my father. Imogen was already ahead of me in the crowd, but I could not make my legs move faster.

Time to choose a husband…or drive them all away.

Chapter Four

Father's audience chamber was austere in comparison to the garish display of wealth in the banquet hall and ballroom. After a moment's wait, the princess thrones were moved into this room, and the nervous heralds and stewards lined the walls. Imogen and I sat together, again placed behind my father. The king sat on his throne in the center of the raised dais, looking rather smugly pleased with himself as the first family entered.

The Eymaris family entered the room, dressed in matching dark green silk to show their family allegiance. Lord and Lady Eymaris – both distant relatives to the Balinore line – must have been the highest ranking nobles in the room to be admitted first. I had the misfortune of frequently running into the de Guerres at every social function, and did not find them easier on the eyes with time. The blondes in their family leaned toward red, with an unfortunate amount of freckling. The eldest son Percial was here tonight, his gut stuffed into a velvet doublet and his jerkin covered with stains from the opulent dinner earlier that evening.

And I was supposed to marry something like that? Really, now.

My father made a welcoming gesture to them, beckoning for the family to approach. Pleasantries were exchanged, and I only listened with half an ear, clenching and unclenching my hands quietly in my skirts, the only sign of nervousness that I would allow myself.

“Before we can continue forward,” my father said, and my attention darted back to him. “There is something I should tell you about Princess Imogen.”

I noticed Percial's attention had been fixed on Imogen's blonde, smiling beauty, and his piggish eyes veered back toward my father with confusion. I glanced over at Imogen too, wondering what had conspired. Something on the dance floor? My sister's cheeks carried a slight flush, betraying her calmness.

“My dearest Imogen has confessed to me that she has already chosen her husband, and we will be making arrangements with Earl Rutledge's eldest son, Dondran, later this evening. I am afraid to tell you that only Princess Rinda is available to marry.”

It was hard not to see the disappointment cross the faces of the Eymaris family, just as quickly replaced by avarice. I was still a princess, after all. Percial's small eyes focused on me and he smiled in my direction, as if it should please me that he'd decided to pay attention to me. Like it wasn't obvious that I was the second choice.

Time to implement my plan.

“Too fat,” I declared in a loud, bored voice.

Outraged gasps filled the room – my sister, Lady Eymaris, and possibly a herald. My father turned narrow, dangerous eyes to me. “Did you say something,
Princess
Rinda?” He deliberately stressed my title.

“He's far too fat for me,” I said in a light voice, and raised my hand in a careless gesture. “Look at him. He looks like a piglet that just escaped the fair.”

“Rinda—” my father began warningly. “You will apologize at once.”

I looked down at the Eymaris family, their mouths hanging open slightly. My smile was brilliant in return, and I put on my most contrite face. “I'm terribly sorry that your son is so revolting. Perhaps he should exercise more if he wishes to marry a princess.” I looked back at my father with clear eyes. “I'm afraid that I won't be marrying him, so we are done here.”

“What are you doing, Rinda?” My sister whispered to my side. “You are being unaccountably rude!”

“I'm choosing,” I declared. “Like father said I could. And I've no wish to marry a fat piglet like Percial.” To prove my point, I puffed up my cheeks as if I were the piglet and stared pointedly at my suitor.

Lady Eymaris gasped and grabbed her son by the arm. She hastily executed a curtsy, glared in my direction, and then made her apologies to my father, but they were removing their names from the list.

I wiggled my fingers goodbye as they exited the room. One down.

“Rinda!” My father bellowed at me.

“I'm sorry,” I blurted immediately, assuming a contrite face. “I couldn't help myself, Father. I promise to be better.” Feigning my best humility, I glanced down at my skirts and twisted my hands in them, affecting nervousness (that was not too far off the mark). “I thought that if I showed anything but disdain, I'd end up married to him. I dislike the de Guerres intensely,” I said, my voice raising into a wail that I was positive the exiting de Guerres heard.

Imogen gave me a horrified look at my manners, and it did make me wither a little inside to see that my sister thought so poorly of me. “Rinda, Father would not make you marry someone you despised. There's no need to be rude or ungracious.” She reached over to clasp my knotted hands, as if trying to reassure me, and gave Father a chagrined look. “I am sure Rinda did not mean harm,” she said in a hushed voice.

My father glowered at the two of us, clearly not fooled by my sister’s words.

“It is merely high emotion, Father,” Imogen said. “Tonight has been very stressful for Rinda.”

Father twisted around in his throne and waved an irritated hand at the heralds. “Very well, bring in the next.”

The heralds bowed and rushed for the door, as if they couldn't wait to get away from the strange royal family. The next petitioner that entered the room was actually just one person, an older, lanky man with a neat, pale beard not unlike my Father's. His head was covered in a floppy green velvet beret, and three long white feathers dangled from the center of his forehead and swept back over his head. His jerkin and hose were made entirely of an alarming shade of dark orange. Hideous color, really. It was amazing what some people considered fashionable to wear when courting a princess.

“Earl Swynwood,” the heralds announced.

The man bowed at the waist, all gangly legs and knobby knees. He whipped off his feathered cap, revealing a completely bald head.

I gave a loud, deliberate snort. “You must be joking.”

The loud tone of my voice reverberated in the nearly empty chamber and all eyes turned to me again.

My sister gasped. “Rinda!”

“What?” I declared, then gestured at the earl. “I'm to be married, not condemned! Do you mean to tell me that someone is truly taking this man seriously? That he is actually being considered for marriage to me?” I was a young, beautiful princess. This man was a tall string-bean of a lesser noble. It was insulting, if one really thought about it.

“Your highness,” the earl began in a low voice. His voice was reasonable.

I didn't want to hear reasonable. Reasonable might sway my father. So I tilted my head and eyed the earl as if he were a piece of garbage thrust before me. “For the love of all that is good, he's wearing more feathers in his one cap than I have in my entire wardrobe. Tell us, sir - did you attack a stray peacock on your way to the ball tonight?”

“That is enough, Rinda!” My father's voice was furious. “How dare you humiliate your family before the court?”

But I was just getting started.

“I refuse to marry an old man who resembles a dried up carrot,” I said in my loudest voice.

The heralds stared at me in mute horrified silence, jaws slightly agape.

“Your highness,” the earl began again, shocked. He looked at my father in a mixture of confusion and humiliation and jammed the cap back on his head, smoothing his hand down the hideous orange jerkin.

“Oh, like that's much better,” I said. “Now you truly look like a carrot.” The feathers really did jut from his head like a crown of leafy greens. “Perhaps if you wore a sack over your head instead of that cap—”

“Princess Marinda Balinore,” my father shouted, using my full name. That meant big trouble. He twisted around in his throne, glaring at me. “You will cease this at once!”

I couldn't stop – waiting out there was a full ballroom of nobility, all vying for their chance to marry a princess. And if I didn't select one – and I wouldn't, because noblemen were bred to be soft fools – my father would select one for me. My only hope was to convince the men that I was unmarriageable. That the worst thing possible would be to marry the uncouth, common princess of Balinore, since her pretty, talented sister was already spoken for.

So I stood from my throne and grabbed my skirts in my hands. “You will excuse me, Father. I am not feeling well.”

“Go to your rooms.”

I gave him a stiff nod and hurried down the steps of the dais, shoving past the confused earl and my father's trusted heralds. I'd only have a few minutes before they realized I wasn't truly heading back to my room, so I needed to make them count. Waving off the guard that fell in step behind me, I waited as one of the heralds opened the double doors to the ballroom and I emerged back out, alone, my shoulders straight as an arrow with tension.