The Wrong Bridegroom
SHARON SHINN
1
The Beautiful Princess
This was the proclamation sent out to all corners of the land: I, King Reginald, have decreed that I will wed my daughter, Olivia, to the man who passes three tests that prove he is brave, strong, and clever. All men are invited to Kallenore Castle to compete for the very fairest prize.
Sounds romantic, doesn't it? I thought so at first, until I started appraising some of my suitors. They didn't arrive armed only with weapons, courage, and intelligence. A good number of them also brought lust, greed, ambition, and a few other unsavory traits. For Kallenore was a lush and prosperous land, and I was my father's only child - and people have been telling me since the day I was born that I'm beautiful. I have to admit I secretly believe it's true. My hair is black, my eyes are blue, and my skin has been free of those appalling blemishes for four years.
After the first round of competition - a standard if very energetic joust - eliminated more than half of the contestants, I began to think seriously about what it would mean to be married off to someone I didn't know and might not like. I was particularly worried about two of the combatants who had survived the rounds of fighting. One was a large, brutish man who looked like he could tear apart the palace's foundation stones with his thumb and forefinger. He had bulging eyes, greasy hair, and a beard that might not have been trimmed since the day it first started to show. I comforted myself with the thought that he didn't look bright enough to pass the test that relied on brains.
But the second contestant who caught my eye most assuredly was that intelligent, and I didn't want to marry him, either. In fact, my refusal to be betrothed to Sir Harwin Brenley of Brenley Estates was what had precipitated this whole not so-romantic-after-all competition in the first place.
I had known Harwin my whole life. His father, Sir Milton, was the most significant property owner in the kingdom, a lord who by turns was my father's greatest ally and chief adversary. The day I was born, our parents decided that Harwin and I should marry. Harwin had never seemed as horrified at the idea as I had.
Well, he wouldn't. He was too dull to whip up an emotion like horror. He was placid and stolid and measured and practically bovine in his level of insensate calm. He could be quite stubborn in failing to yield a point or change his mind, but he never argued; he never shouted or threw things or stalked from the room spitting curses. He wasn't, I suppose, hideously unattractive, for he was tall, and athletic enough to acquit himself on a jousting field, and his face didn't have any scars or squints or disproportionate features. He just was - this big, solid, boring clump of a human being.
I mean, I couldn't possibly marry him.
What if he passed all three of my father's tests?>
I would run away. I would. My father couldn't make me marry someone against my will.
My father had never been able to make me do anything I didn't want to do. Which was probably the reason he detested me as much as I detested him.
There was a knock on the door, which I ignored, but the person in the hallway came inside anyway. I glared at her. I usually went to some trouble to avoid spending any time with my stepmother, Gisele, more out of principle than because of any active dislike. Well, she was only five years older than I was, small and dainty and well behaved. Her dark brown hair always lay sleek against her cheeks; her black eyes were always watchful. She made me look like a big galumphy girl when I stood beside her, and even when she wasn't criticizing me out loud, her expression was generally reproving. And she had married my father, which I couldn't imagine any woman of sense wanting to do. Ever since she had moved into the palace three years ago, I had refused to respond to any of her attempts to win me over. She had mostly given up trying.
Today it seemed like she might be trying one more time. Her face wore a more urgent expression than usual. "Olivia," she said. "It's not too late."
I had been standing at the window, watching the bustle in the palace courtyard, where most of the contestants had set up tents and pavilions. There were still probably two dozen remaining, and at least half of them were milling around in the warm golden light of an autumn afternoon. The whole scene of color and endless motion was amazingly inviting, and I longed to be down there with my suitors instead of up here with my stepmother.
I turned my back to the pageantry outside and said in the surly voice I usually employed while speaking to Gisele, "It's not too late for what?"
"To accept Harwin," she said.
I let out a gusty breath of surprise. "I am not going to marry Harwin!"
She went on as if I hadn't spoken. "Have you taken a good look at some of the individuals who have come to the palace with the intention of winning your hand? Even if you ignore the obvious fact that they would be unqualified to rule at your side once you inherit your father's throne, they would be nightmares to share your bed with for the next fifty years. I know you think Harwin is a charmless bore, but he is not cruel, he is not stupid, and he is nowhere near as oafish as you believe. Whereas some of these men - "
I stiffened my back. I would not let her see that her alarm was echoing my own uneasiness. "The competition has already started," I said. "It would not be hon orable to cancel it now."
"You'll be thinking a lot less about honor once you find yourself married to a man you cannot tolerate," Gisele said grimly. "You'll be wishing yourself safely wed to Harwin Brenley, for all his bland conversation."
I actually stamped my foot. "I do not choose to marry Harwin," I said. "A woman should have some choice in the matter of her marriage!"
"She should, which is why she should say yes when the choice she is offered is a tolerable one," Gisele replied.
"Is that how you ended up married to a king?" I said in a rude voice. "Because you turned down the other matches your father would have made for you?"
She watched me steadily with those dark, unreadable eyes. "Do you think your father is the person I would have married had I been given the choice?"
I hunched a shoulder. "You married him fast enough. My mother had only been dead six months."
"My father and your father strode from the crypt to the chapel, already making plans," she shot back. "I would have been here six days after her death if they had had their way."
I shrugged again. What did it matter? She had been eager enough to jump into the marriage bed with a man old enough to be her father. "At any rate, you can see why I am not so interested in your advice on how to make a happy marriage."
She continued to keep her gaze on me. "Your father wants a son," she said. "The minute he has one, you will be shoved aside - forgotten. I recommend that you make sure you are safely married off to a man you like and admire before your father gets his son, or your life will become wretched in the extreme. There. I have just given you another piece of good advice that you will no doubt ignore."
"I suppose it's very lucky for me that you have so far failed to provide him that son," I said.
"I suppose it is."
I spread my hands in an impatient gesture. "Why do I find it so hard to believe that you have my best interests at heart?"
"I don't know," she replied. "Why do you?"
Shrugging again, I turned my back on her and once more gave all my attention to the tumble and gaiety in the courtyard. "Thank you for your concern," I said, my polite voice obviously insincere. "But I think I can manage my life without your interference."
I waited till after dark. And then I put on a plain, brown cloak, pulled the hood over my head, and stole down the servants' stairways, out the kitchen exit, and into the vast courtyard. Soon I was winding my way through the variegated tents, jostling bodies, and loud merriment that had taken over what was normally a very formal space.
It was hard to take it all in. Servants and pages were racing past the irregular campfires, carrying messages and fetching food. Some of the men were outside their tents, arguing and practicing swordplay. Some were inside; I could see their shadows leap and gesture on the cloth walls, lit from within. The smells were diverse and suffocating - smoke, meat, ale, mud, horse, leather, and excrement, from man or beast or both. Now and then I heard a woman's laugh or high-pitched squeal over the lower rumble of men's voices.
The sounds surprised me and I found myself frowning. I had a low opinion of any man who brought a doxy to a competition to win the hand of a princess. Shouldn't all my suitors be pure of heart as well as strong and brave and brilliant? I would have any man disqualified if he consorted with low women while he was wooing me. If, of course, I could figure out which ones they were.
I had wound my way halfway through the courtyard when I spotted the big bruiser who had caught my eye during the joust. He was sitting on an overturned barrel, but he was so heavy it looked as though his body weight was slowly forcing it into the ground. In one hand he held a hunk of charred meat hacked off the bone; in the other, he held a slovenly woman whose breasts were so big her dirty white camisole could hardly contain them. Three comrades lounged nearby, calling out advice. I hurried on before I could quite decipher what that advice pertained to.
No. He would not be an acceptable bridegroom by any measure.
He could not win my father's competition, could he?>
I wandered on, drawing my cloak more tightly around my body to fend off the chill of the autumn evening. I was a little reassured to come upon a corner of the camp where no one was wolfing down overcooked meals or enjoying the attention of questionable women. There were plenty of sober-looking young men sitting contemplatively before their fires, or oiling their blades or mending their tack. I even saw one reading a book. He was a tall, lean fellow who looked to be mostly ribs and elbows. I couldn't imagine how he'd made it through the joust without being unhorsed, but I guessed he would fare well during the test of intelligence. Standing in the darkness, I studied his face by flickering firelight. He looked humorless, severe, fanatical. I would not want to be married to him, either.
Though I would choose him over the big brute with the greasy skin.
If I was allowed to choose.
I pushed away my anxiety and moved on.
At the very last tent pitched just inside the palace gate, I saw a man practicing magic.
It was difficult at first to get a glimpse of him, because he had drawn a small crowd of onlookers who ringed him about, murmuring astonishment. I found a discarded trunk with a broken lock and stood on it to get a better view. And then I, too, was gasping with delight at the show unfolding before me.
A slim, handsome young man stood in a circle of spectators, his face and body lit by the curiously brilliant flames of a low fire. But no - it was not an ordinary fire; it was a blaze made of jagged blocks of golden quartz, each tendril of flame tapered to a point, the whole thing glowing like a harvest moon. While we watched, he twisted his outstretched hands, and the colors within surged to red and hunkered down to purple. He snapped his fingers and the light disappeared completely - and then suddenly sprang back to life, crackling and leaping like an ordinary little fire.
"How'd you do that?" someone asked in a stupefied voice, speaking for all of us.
"Magic," said the young man, and then he laughed.
He was plainly visible in the light from the natural fire, and he was adorable. His shoulder-length blond hair had a rogue curl; his face wore a rascal's smile. The mischievous look was counteracted somewhat by deep-set eyes, a generous mouth, and a patrician nose. His hands were elegant and expressive; he reached for the sky and I swear every person in the audience looked up to see what he might pluck from the air. A bird, as it happened, squawking and indignant, who shook itself and leapt from his palm to wing back into the night. He laughed to see it go, his expression purely joyous.
"Are your tricks real or just illusions?" someone demanded.
"What makes you think illusions are not real?" he replied. He picked up a block of rough firewood and squeezed it in his hands; it lengthened and changed colors and leafed out between his fingers, becoming a switch of live greenery covered with white flowers. Just as I had convinced myself that this was a mere visual trick, he snapped off one of the blossoms and presented it to a woman in the audience, a little older and a little less debased than the one I had seen on the big fellow's lap. She cooed and tucked the bloom into the front of her bodice, then shared a kiss with a man who had his arm around her waist.
"What else can you do?" someone called out.
"What would you like to see me do?"
"Can you change coppers to gold coins?" another man spoke up.
The blond man laughed. "I've found that it never pays to tinker with the king's coin," he said. "So the answer is no."
"Can you turn water into ale?"
"Make a woman love you?"
"Heal a broken limb?"
"Change a person's face?"
It was this last request that interested him. "Whose face? Your own? Come closer and let me look at you."
A young man broke free of the shadows and stepped into the circle of firelight. He was of medium height, a little heavyset, with an unfortunate collection of features. Droopy eyes under thick brows, a nose both large and broad, huge ears, bad teeth, the whole covered with a pocked and scarred layer of skin. "I wouldn't ask to be made a handsome man," the youth said in a quiet voice, "just better-looking."
The magician studied him. "I believe I can improve you without making you unrecognizable to your friends."
Again the crowd murmured, a little bit awed, a little bit unnerved. I had to admit my own emotions were much the same. "How long would such a magic last?" the boy asked.
The blond man shrugged. "Forever. It will be as if your face was resculpted, down to the blood and bone."
The homely boy took a deep breath. "Then change me, if you will."
Someone behind him called out, "Calroy, you fool, you didn't ask him for his fee first!"
The magician laughed again. "There's no fee. I'll do it for the challenge alone. Hold still now." And Calroy closed his eyes and turned motionless as a tree stump. The blond man frowned in concentration and laid his hands over Calroy's jaws, his eyes, his unruly hair. Everyone in the audience, myself included, was leaning forward to watch, but Calroy's back was to most of us and there was very little to see. Another flutter of his fingers and then the magician stepped back.
"Don't turn around yet," he ordered. "My sister will hand you a mirror. If you don't like what you see, I'll change you back."
Calroy stood obediently passive, while a woman sitting at the back edge of the circle came to her feet. Sister? I thought with some derision, remembering my walk through camp. But this one looked enough like the magician to make the blood tie plausible. By firelight, her hair was redder, thicker, and without that springy curl. But the curve of her mouth and the line of her profile matched his own, and her smile looked just as playful. In her hand was a small mirror, which she angled for Calroy's view.
He bent forward, and then he gasped, his hands flying up to touch his face. "Show us!" someone from the audience demanded, and Calroy pivoted on one foot.
There was first silence and then a murmur that was half admiration and half fear. For Calroy stood before us definitely altered and yet still clearly himself. The heavy brow had been shoved back, the outsize eyes reshaped. The nose was much refined, and the mouth - stretched wide in a smile - showed even teeth without a hint of decay. He certainly wasn't a man who would turn the girls' heads, but neither would he draw the mockery of young boys. He was a little better than ordinary, with a look of happiness that gave him extra appeal.
"Well?" asked the magician. "Are you satisfied?"
"More than satisfied. Thank you - thank you - I do have a few coins with me, not nearly enough to pay for something like this - "
The magician waved a dismissive hand. "The work of a few moments. I was glad to do it. All I would ask is that if you have the chance to do an easy kindness for someone else, you take that chance."
"And this will be my face from now on? For the rest of my life?"
"Forever," the magician confirmed.
"I must go show my brother," Calroy exclaimed, and dove through the crowd and disappeared.
The others drew back to let him pass, and then turned to one another to express their amazement at what they had just witnessed. I had jumped off my trunk, ready to sneak away, but I got caught in the general disorganized movement of the crowd. A few murmured apologies, a few bodies gently pushed aside, and I suddenly found myself a few feet from the magician and his sister. I could not see them through the press of bodies, but I recognized his voice and guessed at hers.
"That was the most fun magic has brought me for a while," he said in a jaunty tone.
Her voice was a lilting alto. "I suppose you're hoping Princess Olivia will hear of your kind deed and favor your suit?"
He laughed. "Yes, or her father. Why should they not learn that I am gifted and generous? Who would not want such a man for a husband?"
"I love you, Darius, but you would make a very bad husband. And an even worse king. I don't know why you're even in this competition."
"Have you seen her, Dannette? She's beautiful. That hair! That skin!"
"They say she has a temper. And a strong will and a stubborn heart."
Eavesdropping in the dark, I couldn't help but nod. All true. I wondered which servants or local lords had provided Dannette's information.
He laughed at her. "She sounds delightful."
"So you're really going to try to win her hand?"
"I really am."
I managed to choke back my squeal of excitement. At last! A man I could love, and a man who was already halfway enamored of me! A handsome, charming, talented man, blessed with a kind heart and a cheerful manner! How could he have been better? I was tempted to step forward and introduce myself, but the group of spectators that had absorbed me in the dark now began to shred apart, and I decided it was wiser to move on. My head was humming with elation; my heart was pattering with glee. After all, my father's competition to find my husband was turning out very well indeed.
I was thinking so blissfully about Darius that I was careless when I returned to the palace, with the result that I ran into Harwin within a minute of slipping in through a side door.
"There you are," he said in his measured voice, the syllables heavy with disapproval. "I should have guessed. Wandering through the contestants' camp, I suppose, picking out your favorites."
I gave a guilty start upon first hearing his voice, and for a moment I looked up at him like a small child waiting for a scold she knows she deserves. Unlike me, Harwin was properly dressed in formal evening clothes. The dull brown color of his jacket did not do much to lighten either his expression or his olive skin tones, though the garment was finely made and nicely showed off the width of his shoulders. I remembered that he had handily won his events in the joust. I was not used to thinking of him as being any kind of athlete, but he was big enough, and apparently dexterous enough, to handle himself with competence on the battlefield.
Then my natural insouciance reasserted itself. I tossed back my hair and dropped my hands instead of tightly clutching the cloak as if I wanted to hide inside it. "And what if I was?" I said breezily. "If I'm going to marry the man who wins my father's competition, shouldn't I learn about all of the contestants?"
"If that is really how you plan to choose a bridegroom, I will win the three competitions," he said.
His cool, blockish, unimaginative certainty inspired me with sudden rage, though I tried to tamp it down. "I have already said I will not marry you," I replied. "You have already been eliminated from the lists."
"Do you reserve the right to refuse any other contestant who might be successful?" he said with a little heat. "That clause was not in the proclamation that I heard."
I leaned forward, still angry. "I will never marry a man that I cannot stand," I said. "No matter how he is presented to me or what obstacles he has overcome."
Harwin's face smoothed out; almost, I would have said, he was relieved. "I told your father this competition was ill-advised," he said. "I told him he could not possibly predict what kinds of rogues and ruffians might show up on his doorstep, prepared to go to any length to win a spectacular prize. There are plenty of villains who can wield a sword and solve a puzzle. Those are no criteria for deciding who will wed your daughter - and who will rule the kingdom after you." He gave me one long, sober inspection. "I do believe you have the courage to refuse any man who is not worthy of you."
I supposed that was a compliment in its heavy-handed way. "I wouldn't think my father plans to hold the wedding ceremony the very day the competition ends," I said. "No doubt I will get to know my prospective bridegroom during our engagement period. I'm not afraid of scandal - I'll break off the betrothal if I find he's not the man he seemed."
Harwin's eyes took on a sudden keenness. "Yes, that is a most excellent idea," he said. "Tell your father there must be an engagement long enough to enable you to assess the worth of your victorious suitor."
"Even if the victorious suitor is you?" I asked in a dulcet voice.
He just looked at me for a moment. "Yes," he said, at last. "I would hope you would use that time to get to know me. To learn things about me that perhaps you have not understood before."
"I cannot imagine what those things might be," I said. "I have known you my whole life."
"You have been acquainted with me your whole life," he corrected. "It is not the same thing."
I shrugged. I was tired of talking to Sir Harwin. "I will tell my father I want a betrothal period." Suddenly, for no good reason, I remembered Gisele's earlier advice to marry quickly before my father sired a son. I wondered if that had been her subtle hint that she was pregnant, though she could hardly know if she was carrying a boy. "Though I'm not sure I like the idea of a long engagement," I added.
"It is a splendid idea," Harwin said. "I will make the recommendation myself."
Now I scowled. "I don't know why you think you have anything to say about my engagement or my wedding or my life."
"I have everything to say," he responded, his voice cool again. "I'm the man who's going to marry you."
I made a strangled sound deep in my throat and spun on my heel, not even answering him. Within a few steps, I had turned the corner and slipped up the servants' stairwell, on my way back to my own room. If Harwin had any more ridiculously grave pronouncements to make, I didn't hear them.
I was not going to marry Harwin. I was going to marry Darius the magician, if he turned out to be as delightful as he seemed - and if he didn't, I wouldn't marry him or any other man who had flocked to my father's house with the hope of winning my hand. I was not a prize to be bestowed, won, or bartered.
I was a princess, and a rather difficult young woman. I knew how to get my own way.