One
Knights of the Griffin
Seventeen eyes watched the dark tip of a white quill, sliced to a precise point, like the pricking end of a sword, soldierly shed its black substance onto the parchment as a permanent ribbon of authority. King Roderick’s hand dropped the quill back into the inkwell of impeccably polished silver upon his desk. It was done: a mutual bond of amity that would forever unite the kingdoms of Khryterdon and Joaillia as allies in prosperity. Joaillia’s ambassador, central among the dignitaries present, gladly witnessed the document. After the affixing of the official seals, the dignitaries bowed respectfully and exited through the grand double doors of the king’s study, held open for them by two guardsmen smartly if uncomfortably uniformed in bright blue. The open doorway admitted a momentary breath of cool air in from the corridor but it was not enough to reduce the perspiration of the guardsmen standing erect. Blotting his brow with his sleeve, an old battlefield habit that annoyed his queen who championed the polite use of handkerchiefs, King Roderick exited through a private door leading upstairs to his dressing room. He had only two hours to be vested in military attire and to ride into the City.
A flutter of black tresses and a patter of dainty feet rushed past the Joaillian ambassador down the wide, straight corridor with its floor of polished white marble and its columns of ornately carved yellow marble. The man paused; though one eye was patched, the other keenly watched the increasingly distant form of the King’s daughter, late for her lessons. His lips curled contemptuously at the informality Roderick allowed at his palace. No Princess of Joaillia was permitted such behavior. Joaillian princesses adhered to an ancient and very strict code of conduct. Unlike these Khrytish women who were as delicate and frivolous as the architectural frou-frou adorning their palaces. But this was not his concern. The ambassador to the court of Bounbrow had secured the arrangement desired by Joaillia’s King Dojglas. Dealing with the consequences was not part of his assignment.
Summer, too glorious in its sun, settled upon the massive stone edifice of Bounbrow Palace, sheathed in white marble, upon its craggy hilltop perch overlooking the northern port city of Listroba, the capital of Khryterdon. The solstice was yet four days away but the heat had already arrived. The usually refreshing breezes blowing in from Wejoir Bay, fed by the Oriome Sea stretching to the east and northward, would not make themselves felt today for the royal court. Every window stood open, from the throne room, to the scullery, to the school room.
Four princesses sat silently at their studies. The youngest, Sonia, buoyantly blonde and just eight years old, had on her lap a square of slate upon which she worked out 2-digit addition and subtraction equations in chalk. She did not accomplish much due to steady interruptions by her eleven-year-old companion, Alexa, who kept sketching satirical scenes on her slate which she would clandestinely flash to Sonia, who would giggle, but would erase them each time their tutor strode over to investigate. He implored the girl to apply herself to her handwriting and grammar lesson, bemoaning how often he had to repeat this admonition to her.
“Send her to sit in the corner,” offered Princess Monica, Alexa’s sixteen-year-old sister, focused on writing an essay about how tales of romance spoil the common sense of young girls.
“I cannot concentrate: it’s too hot!” Princess Alexa defended herself, blotting the perspiration below her auburn bangs with a crumpled handkerchief. “I thought we were to be given cold lemonade this afternoon.”
“You thought wrong,” Monica informed her. “Complete your lesson, or do you wish me to write to Father of how you are squandering this opportunity for education?”
“She probably will write anyway,” Princess Sonia whispered to Alexa who frowned and turned her attention to conjugating verbs on her slate.
These three were all great-granddaughters of Prince Anthony Magneric: the sisters being descended from Anthony’s eldest daughter, and Sonia from the line of the prince’s younger son. The girls’ third cousin, and the eldest of the four princesses studying here, was Sabrina, five months shy of turning seventeen. She and her twin brother Prince Latimer were the only children of Khryterdon’s reigning monarch, Roderick Magneric.
Princess Sabrina felt as indisposed toward her lesson today as did Alexa. The senior princess was supposed to be memorizing a poem but every time Sabrina read over the third stanza her mind drifted to how she might look and act at the ball tonight. It was her first Investiture Ball: last year she had been too young to attend. As the King’s daughter she owned the privilege of escorting this year’s two newly invested knights into the ballroom. What if she tripped down the steps? Or said something awkward? She would then dance the first dance with one of them; Princess Monica had received the honor to dance with the other. Sabrina was sure Monica would carry out the duty with supreme ease and charm. Bracingly brunette, Monica was a natural flirt, but Sabrina never felt adequately charming, though she was an elegant dancer. The poem’s third stanza could not compete with the rehearsal Sabrina was conducting in her head for a smooth performance of tonight’s event.
A flutter of black tresses and a patter of dainty feet rushed past the Joaillian ambassador down the wide, straight corridor with its floor of polished white marble and its columns of ornately carved yellow marble. The man paused; though one eye was patched, the other keenly watched the increasingly distant form of the King’s daughter, late for her lessons. His lips curled contemptuously at the informality Roderick allowed at his palace. No Princess of Joaillia was permitted such behavior. Joaillian princesses adhered to an ancient and very strict code of conduct. Unlike these Khrytish women who were as delicate and frivolous as the architectural frou-frou adorning their palaces. But this was not his concern. The ambassador to the court of Bounbrow had secured the arrangement desired by Joaillia’s King Dojglas. Dealing with the consequences was not part of his assignment.
Summer, too glorious in its sun, settled upon the massive stone edifice of Bounbrow Palace, sheathed in white marble, upon its craggy hilltop perch overlooking the northern port city of Listroba, the capital of Khryterdon. The solstice was yet four days away but the heat had already arrived. The usually refreshing breezes blowing in from Wejoir Bay, fed by the Oriome Sea stretching to the east and northward, would not make themselves felt today for the royal court. Every window stood open, from the throne room, to the scullery, to the school room.
Four princesses sat silently at their studies. The youngest, Sonia, buoyantly blonde and just eight years old, had on her lap a square of slate upon which she worked out 2-digit addition and subtraction equations in chalk. She did not accomplish much due to steady interruptions by her eleven-year-old companion, Alexa, who kept sketching satirical scenes on her slate which she would clandestinely flash to Sonia, who would giggle, but would erase them each time their tutor strode over to investigate. He implored the girl to apply herself to her handwriting and grammar lesson, bemoaning how often he had to repeat this admonition to her.
“Send her to sit in the corner,” offered Princess Monica, Alexa’s sixteen-year-old sister, focused on writing an essay about how tales of romance spoil the common sense of young girls.
“I cannot concentrate: it’s too hot!” Princess Alexa defended herself, blotting the perspiration below her auburn bangs with a crumpled handkerchief. “I thought we were to be given cold lemonade this afternoon.”
“You thought wrong,” Monica informed her. “Complete your lesson, or do you wish me to write to Father of how you are squandering this opportunity for education?”
“She probably will write anyway,” Princess Sonia whispered to Alexa who frowned and turned her attention to conjugating verbs on her slate.
These three were all great-granddaughters of Prince Anthony Magneric: the sisters being descended from Anthony’s eldest daughter, and Sonia from the line of the prince’s younger son. The girls’ third cousin, and the eldest of the four princesses studying here, was Sabrina, five months shy of turning seventeen. She and her twin brother Prince Latimer were the only children of Khryterdon’s reigning monarch, Roderick Magneric.
Princess Sabrina felt as indisposed toward her lesson today as did Alexa. The senior princess was supposed to be memorizing a poem but every time Sabrina read over the third stanza her mind drifted to how she might look and act at the ball tonight. It was her first Investiture Ball: last year she had been too young to attend. As the King’s daughter she owned the privilege of escorting this year’s two newly invested knights into the ballroom. What if she tripped down the steps? Or said something awkward? She would then dance the first dance with one of them; Princess Monica had received the honor to dance with the other. Sabrina was sure Monica would carry out the duty with supreme ease and charm. Bracingly brunette, Monica was a natural flirt, but Sabrina never felt adequately charming, though she was an elegant dancer. The poem’s third stanza could not compete with the rehearsal Sabrina was conducting in her head for a smooth performance of tonight’s event.
* * *
Kingsley Road, the thoroughfare traversing from Bounbrow Palace two miles away, over the Cordell River at Kingsley Bridge and eastward through the city center to King’s Gate, passed under Union Arch which straddled the road and linked the edifice of the War Memorial on the north side of the road with the Bastion (the Hall of Griffin Knights and headquarters of the Royal Army) to the south. Traffic generated by Griffin knights, numbering more than sixty, congested Kingsley Road outside the Bastion this afternoon: Investiture Day.
Knights in full regalia, their emerald-colored mantles flowing from their shoulders, their emerald silk sashes draping gold fringes over their sword belts, loitered about the corridors of the Bastion in cheery conversation as they waited for the signal to enter the Hall for the commencement of the ceremony. A few heads turned at the very odd sound of a baby crying.
Sir Doran of Whitelaw, a First Station knight, had brought along his new four-month-old grandson to put on proud display as the healthy continuance of his line. Several knights joked that he was giving the boy an unfair advantage with early indoctrination into their order! After the infant was introduced to all the prominent knights, Sir Doran returned the baby to his daughter-in-law. She, with her husband and Sir Doran, had made the trip to Listroba to celebrate the investiture of her cousin Hector. Moments later the signal sounded, and the knights formed a long paired queue according to their seniority and processed into the Hall.
In the Room of Relics, adjacent to the Hall of Griffin Knights, two very nervous young men stood waiting. Lord Hector Lasseter, aged twenty, tried to appear fully calm; Lord Holbrook Meinrad, who would turn twenty next month, was clearly tingling with anticipation. Both young men were tall and trim, though Lord Holbrook had a slighter build than his companion, and Lord Hector was the more handsome. They both were strong in body and ability, having been harshly tested for the last six years at the Military Academy and emerging at the head of their graduating class. They both found an outlet for their nervous energy by examining the enshrined relics of famous Griffin knights displayed in this room, beginning with the parchment establishing the Most Noble Order of the Griffin by its foundress, Queen Ulrica the Great, almost five hundred years ago. A quincentennial celebration was being planned by the knights for the big anniversary in four years.
Both young men had spent last night praying in the cathedral and today were fasting until the investiture’s conclusion. This morning they had bathed and shaved, a ceremonial washing away of their impurities, in preparation of their reception into this chivalric order of noblemen. Today the inductees wore a white shirt under a special red tunic to symbolize they were willing to shed their blood in honorable defense of the noble and the lowly alike, primarily with the sword which each of them had girded at his hip.
An acolyte opened the door: it was time.
Lord Holbrook and Lord Hector followed him into the Hall. They were preceded by two boys each carrying a pole with a colorful banner draped from it.
The Hall was shaped much like a chapel with the knights standing almost as a congregation facing the King seated upon a throne. From poles positioned in brackets along the two side walls draped the heraldic banners of every noble house represented by this membership. The two boys with the new banners stood at either side of the throne. The two inductees stood before the brotherhood of knights and faced King Roderick to whom they would swear allegiance and obedience. Beginning with Lord Holbrook. He stepped forward and knelt before Roderick. Placing his right hand upon the flat of an ancient broadsword and raising his own sword aloft in his left hand, he pledged his life and honor to protect the land over which the Crown ruled and him on whom that crown was placed. He leaned forward to kiss the hilt of the sword as it was presented to him and then bowed his head low for the space of three seconds in respect to the King. The brotherhood always judged how well the inductee was able to do this while keeping his raised sword vertical and steady. Holbrook executed the maneuver slightly better than Hector did.
After their swords were sheathed and the inductees had returned to standing in the area between the throne and the knights, two acolytes came forward, each with an emerald-colored cincture of silk draped over his hands. Delicate gold embroidery and fringe trimmed the two ends of the sashes. Each inductee received a sash around his waist, tied with a specific knot in front. Holbrook, first, was then bade to step forward again and kneel.
Standing, King Roderick was an imposing figure. At age forty-seven his black hair and beard had a good salting of grey. He was tall yet still muscular in his chest and limbs. The King lifted the great broadsword and touched it lightly to the young man’s shoulders.
“Rise Sir Holbrook Meinrad,” the King intoned, “Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Griffin ‑ Second Station.”
Sir Holbrook rose, bowed his feelings of gratitude and stood back as Hector came forward to kneel.
“Rise Sir Hector Lasseter, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Griffin - Second Station.”
The two assistants again came forward with spurs and rings on a pillow. The spurs were ceremoniously attached to the new knights’ boots, and the knights received their rings: gold with a griffin inlaid in green enamel. Finally, emerald-colored mantles were brought forward and placed over the two knights’ shoulders.
A great racket now erupted from the brotherhood as the knights welcomed their new members with the traditional striking of their swords bluntly against their scabbards.
King Roderick concluded the ceremony with a speech of welcome; after which, Sir Holbrook and Sir Hector recited in unison a prayer they had memorized. Lastly, the two flag bearers stepped forward and other assistants placed the two new banners in wall brackets to hang alongside their brethren.
King Roderick then exited the Hall, followed by the senior knights. Sir Holbrook and Sir Hector took up the rear, receiving handshakes from Sir Nelson Lockyer and Sir Claude Durham, last year’s inductees. The two newest knights, grinning with exaltation, also shook each other’s hand. Once outside, they put on sedate faces. Traffic was stopped as the knights processed across Kingsley Road to the War Memorial for their annual religious service of tribute to their fallen brethren.
Tonight there was a ball at Bounbrow Palace to honor the inductees. Then a week of tournaments and parties. The festivities had only begun.
Knights in full regalia, their emerald-colored mantles flowing from their shoulders, their emerald silk sashes draping gold fringes over their sword belts, loitered about the corridors of the Bastion in cheery conversation as they waited for the signal to enter the Hall for the commencement of the ceremony. A few heads turned at the very odd sound of a baby crying.
Sir Doran of Whitelaw, a First Station knight, had brought along his new four-month-old grandson to put on proud display as the healthy continuance of his line. Several knights joked that he was giving the boy an unfair advantage with early indoctrination into their order! After the infant was introduced to all the prominent knights, Sir Doran returned the baby to his daughter-in-law. She, with her husband and Sir Doran, had made the trip to Listroba to celebrate the investiture of her cousin Hector. Moments later the signal sounded, and the knights formed a long paired queue according to their seniority and processed into the Hall.
In the Room of Relics, adjacent to the Hall of Griffin Knights, two very nervous young men stood waiting. Lord Hector Lasseter, aged twenty, tried to appear fully calm; Lord Holbrook Meinrad, who would turn twenty next month, was clearly tingling with anticipation. Both young men were tall and trim, though Lord Holbrook had a slighter build than his companion, and Lord Hector was the more handsome. They both were strong in body and ability, having been harshly tested for the last six years at the Military Academy and emerging at the head of their graduating class. They both found an outlet for their nervous energy by examining the enshrined relics of famous Griffin knights displayed in this room, beginning with the parchment establishing the Most Noble Order of the Griffin by its foundress, Queen Ulrica the Great, almost five hundred years ago. A quincentennial celebration was being planned by the knights for the big anniversary in four years.
Both young men had spent last night praying in the cathedral and today were fasting until the investiture’s conclusion. This morning they had bathed and shaved, a ceremonial washing away of their impurities, in preparation of their reception into this chivalric order of noblemen. Today the inductees wore a white shirt under a special red tunic to symbolize they were willing to shed their blood in honorable defense of the noble and the lowly alike, primarily with the sword which each of them had girded at his hip.
An acolyte opened the door: it was time.
Lord Holbrook and Lord Hector followed him into the Hall. They were preceded by two boys each carrying a pole with a colorful banner draped from it.
The Hall was shaped much like a chapel with the knights standing almost as a congregation facing the King seated upon a throne. From poles positioned in brackets along the two side walls draped the heraldic banners of every noble house represented by this membership. The two boys with the new banners stood at either side of the throne. The two inductees stood before the brotherhood of knights and faced King Roderick to whom they would swear allegiance and obedience. Beginning with Lord Holbrook. He stepped forward and knelt before Roderick. Placing his right hand upon the flat of an ancient broadsword and raising his own sword aloft in his left hand, he pledged his life and honor to protect the land over which the Crown ruled and him on whom that crown was placed. He leaned forward to kiss the hilt of the sword as it was presented to him and then bowed his head low for the space of three seconds in respect to the King. The brotherhood always judged how well the inductee was able to do this while keeping his raised sword vertical and steady. Holbrook executed the maneuver slightly better than Hector did.
After their swords were sheathed and the inductees had returned to standing in the area between the throne and the knights, two acolytes came forward, each with an emerald-colored cincture of silk draped over his hands. Delicate gold embroidery and fringe trimmed the two ends of the sashes. Each inductee received a sash around his waist, tied with a specific knot in front. Holbrook, first, was then bade to step forward again and kneel.
Standing, King Roderick was an imposing figure. At age forty-seven his black hair and beard had a good salting of grey. He was tall yet still muscular in his chest and limbs. The King lifted the great broadsword and touched it lightly to the young man’s shoulders.
“Rise Sir Holbrook Meinrad,” the King intoned, “Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Griffin ‑ Second Station.”
Sir Holbrook rose, bowed his feelings of gratitude and stood back as Hector came forward to kneel.
“Rise Sir Hector Lasseter, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Griffin - Second Station.”
The two assistants again came forward with spurs and rings on a pillow. The spurs were ceremoniously attached to the new knights’ boots, and the knights received their rings: gold with a griffin inlaid in green enamel. Finally, emerald-colored mantles were brought forward and placed over the two knights’ shoulders.
A great racket now erupted from the brotherhood as the knights welcomed their new members with the traditional striking of their swords bluntly against their scabbards.
King Roderick concluded the ceremony with a speech of welcome; after which, Sir Holbrook and Sir Hector recited in unison a prayer they had memorized. Lastly, the two flag bearers stepped forward and other assistants placed the two new banners in wall brackets to hang alongside their brethren.
King Roderick then exited the Hall, followed by the senior knights. Sir Holbrook and Sir Hector took up the rear, receiving handshakes from Sir Nelson Lockyer and Sir Claude Durham, last year’s inductees. The two newest knights, grinning with exaltation, also shook each other’s hand. Once outside, they put on sedate faces. Traffic was stopped as the knights processed across Kingsley Road to the War Memorial for their annual religious service of tribute to their fallen brethren.
Tonight there was a ball at Bounbrow Palace to honor the inductees. Then a week of tournaments and parties. The festivities had only begun.
* * *
Sabrina looked down at Listroba from the window of her bedchamber. Beyond the City lay the bay which opened to the sea. In the sunshine of a cloudless sky the vast Oriome was the most exquisite shade of blue: sometimes sapphire, sometimes turquoise, sometimes amethyst. She never tired of looking at the sea. How she would love to voyage across the sea! The most traveling she had undertaken was the trek each autumn and spring to and from Dorlevan Palace in Galsha. Even there, the royal family never traveled down to see the Darlington Sea. She had heard tales of what an exotic land Ispezia is, and on dreamy summer days she took excursions there in her mind.
A knock on her door announced the entry of her maids to gown her body and dress her long black hair for the ball. The maids moved easily about the spacious chamber. Like all of the apartments at Bounbrow Palace the princess’ two rooms had cleanly whitewashed plaster walls decorated with a small painting on wood panel and perhaps a tapestry situated above the wainscoting of natural oak. Sabrina’s four-poster bed faced a lovely tapestry of a unicorn roaming a forest. The draperies hanging at the windows of the room were of the same sea-green damask as the curtains of her bed. A woolen rug containing the same hues found in the tapestry lay upon the room’s hardwood floor. As the royal family summered at Bounbrow the large stone fireplace in each chamber was rarely used. All the ceilings in the apartments were plastered, each frescoed differently; a blue sky with white clouds and a rainbow looked down on Sabrina. Her gowns hung in an armoire of cedar and her shoes were stored in a trunk designed for them. She sorted through the jewels she kept in a small chest on the narrow table beside her hefty Bible.
Not as beautiful as Princess Monica, Princess Sabrina was nonetheless pretty, and tonight her maids had rendered her magnificent. On the shorter side of average height, she had a good figure and carried herself well in fashionable clothes. The gown selected for her was of pale green Ispezian silk and she wore a green stone held by a golden chain at her brow. Golden ribbons were entwined in the braids that fell down her back. Hand fans had gone out of fashion—all smart girls now carried a small hand scarf to flick pertly when flirting. Monica had a knack for it, though Sabrina fretted that she herself looked like she was signaling a ship. Regardless, tonight her right hand held the accessory, appropriately emerald-colored.
She followed a footman to an anteroom near the head of the ballroom staircase where her escorts awaited her. As the banisters fashioned as intertwining gilt leaves were set too far to the sides to offer their ready stability, a painful image of herself tumbling in a heap of silk to the bottom of the white marble steps continued to torment the young princess.
The two young Griffins were dressed in the formal regalia of their Order and cut exceedingly dashing figures. They both bowed respectfully to the princess. By the look on Sir Hector’s face, culminating in his smile, he had already assessed her to be a pretty girl worthy of further attention.
“Sir Hector Lasseter of Amberlane, my lady,” he stepped forward and introduced himself with evident delight in his new title, suavely bowing again to kiss her hand.
His companion also bowed and kissed her hand as he introduced himself.
“Welcome, Sirs,” she said somewhat nervously. “The trumpets will sound shortly and we will process down the steps to His Majesty, where we stop and offer homage. The dancing begins immediately thereafter and I am to dance with one of you,” she paused awkwardly because no one had mentioned who went first nor how the choice was to be decided, and she did not want to offend either of them.
“Holbrook has primacy between us,” Sir Hector resolved it, “I shall have the honor to dance with Your Highness second, if that pleases you.”
“A fair arrangement and pleasing,” she agreed. “And you will find, Sir, a partner surpassing every quality in Princess Monica for your first dance.”
She made a little curtsy and he made a small bow.
The trumpets sounded in the room below.
Sir Holbrook offered her his right arm and said softly, “I may require a steady arm from you lest I fall on the steps in my anxiety.”
She looked momentarily bewildered that so strong a knight would make such a statement. The girl stiffened her arm to be of service should the need arise. Sir Hector ill-concealed an amused smile.
He whispered to her, “He spoke a ruse of kindness to reduce your own nervousness.”
Princess Sabrina’s deep blue eyes gazed anew at these two young men, first at Holbrook then at Hector, coloring with embarrassment that her nervousness was so obvious and that her apparent slow-wittedness for not deducing the ruse on her own had been exposed.
“You, Sir Knight, extended me no such kindness,” she reproached Sir Hector as she led them forward to the staircase while the trumpets continued to announce them expectantly.
With her anxiety over mistakes now heightened, she feared the staircase more than before, but Sir Holbrook’s firm arm gave her steady support, as did Sir Hector’s, whose solicitous gallantries were his earnest if silent apology.
An awkward silence fell between Princess Sabrina and Sir Holbrook on the dance floor as both struggled to think of a neutral topic for conversation. He spoke first, saying this was his first visit to Listroba and he found the City impressive in every way. She asked if Newvyem was a lovely city. He confessed it was falling into decline, though it was said to have been magnificent only twenty years ago. The tune ended in the middle of Sir Holbrook’s description of a hunting trip he once took through the lush green glens and meadows of Grenechey and she asked his promise to finish his narrative before the evening’s end. The knight raised an eyebrow of surprise: he had supposed she had been only politely listening.
“I have never been to Grenechey: you make it sound enchanting.”
“At your pleasure, my lady. You do all Grenechenes honor by calling our land enchanting.”
The knight led her to Sir Hector who was elegantly kissing the hand of Princess Monica, thanking her for the delight of her company. Princess Sabrina held her head up. Sir Hector seemed afraid to meet her eyes. Though when he did he saw there an openness to allow forgiveness to cover discord. Greatly relieved, he offered her his politest and humblest bow. They both found they were content to say nothing during their dance though when their eyes met there was in them a happy realization of how skilled the other was in the steps and turns of this dance. By the tune’s end this pair had turned their dance into nearly an exhibition and thanked the other with an appreciative bow and curtsy, and a smile, before parting.
Her duty completed, Sabrina headed to the refreshment table for a cup of wine. Prince Latimer was already there, getting a refill.
Her twin was perhaps an inch shorter than average height, with a slender build and light brown hair, and he was trying to grow a mustache. Gestation in the womb together was all these two siblings had in common. Princess Sabrina always felt a certain satisfaction that she was the one who had emerged first. It was a sore spot for Prince Latimer who disliked being second at anything. He also disliked balls as an excessive waste of time and money on something as pointless as dancing. Sabrina once told him he would probably think differently were he a better dancer. Forced to be here, the prince moved uncomfortably in the ribbons and laces ornamenting his suit, preferring the simplicity of a cadet’s uniform. His furlough from the Military Academy was three weeks, but for him that was two and a half weeks too long.
“Two suitors?” Prince Latimer mused with pointed disinterest.
“More than two tonight, I’ll wager you,” his sister retorted and walked away with her goblet to find Monica, to learn her impression of the two knights.
Queen Beatrice had her ladies around her like hens in a coop. Chief among them was Lady Philana Cosgrove, aged forty-five, whose blonde hair was pulled so tightly into a bun that Sabrina wondered if the woman’s severe disposition was due to constant headaches. Were it not that shorn hair was the punishment levied on debauched women, the princess would have gladly shed some of the weight of her brunette tresses.
Lady Philana was led to the dance floor by her husband Sir Langdon, accompanied by Duke Albert and Duchess Maud of Lophain, Sir Doran and Lady Veda of Whitelaw, and Duke Jasper and Duchess Cornelia of Curlowen, to perform two courtly dances from their generation’s era.
“The old dances are vastly superior to our modern ones,” said a voice beside Princess Sabrina.
Turning, she discovered the speaker was Prince Wesley, Viscount Ternsmeade, heir to the Duchy of Lairenkin, attractively laced into a doublet of white silk heavily embroidered with russet oak leaf motifs. Though only two years older than she, he carried himself with the learned air of a man of thirty and took great pride in the trim black beard he had grown. She had forgotten he would be here tonight.
“Have you skill in the old dances?” she inquired.
“My dance master is a man of middle years and has the highest credentials. He studied under the great masters at Adergarhn and instilled in me the utmost respect for tradition. Too often the wisdom of men of age and experience is undervalued; too often this generation fails to give ear and honor to the perspective of our elders.”
Sabrina had stopped listening to him half way through his non-answer and was scanning for a polite way to extricate herself. She stated she was hungry and headed to the buffet table. Prince Wesley followed, offering to assist her.
“Next year,” he predicted with confidence and a flush of fervor, “Your Highness will be escorting me down those stairs to this ball.”
The idea horrified the young woman and she said a quick, silent prayer asking that such be prevented.
As he took over the task of filling her plate she spied Sir Holbrook between dancing partners.
“Excuse me, my lord,” she said to Prince Wesley and left him holding the plate.
Princess Sabrina crossed the ballroom to intercept the knight. Prince Wesley followed.
The princess was compelled to introduce the two men, then she implored Sir Holbrook to finish his narrative about hunting in the wilds of Grenechey, that the tale would thrill Prince Wesley.
Sir Holbrook amiably rambled on about how to track boar through a glen, then stated his opinion that the finest cabinetmakers in the realm are from the workshops of Newvyem, and went on about the renown Grenechey rightly receives for its exceptional cheeses, beers, cashmeres and woolens, and then described in detail how sheep are shorn, saying that as a boy he tried his hand at several of the rustic arts and had hours of stories to tell.
At this point, the backwardness of Grenechenes confirmed for him, Viscount Ternsmeade voiced his sudden need to speak with Princess Monica.
“Did I perform to your satisfaction?” Sir Holbrook inquired.
Sabrina’s cheeks colored.
“Sir, I beg you, forgive the ploy. That was my intention on the one hand, but believe that I have a genuine interest in your tales on the other and did sincerely wish to hear more of the boar hunt—without him at my elbow.”
To gauge her sincerity he asked, “Would my lady be interested in hearing the story of when I accidentally trod on a skunk when I was nine?”
Sabrina smiled. “Very much. And would my lord care to hear of the time when I rescued a wounded rabbit in the woods of Dorlevan?”
He inclined his head politely, though with an agreeable smile.
Prince Latimer kept to the rear of the festivities, a filled wine goblet always in his hand, preferring to converse with his fellow academy cadets about various martial arts. Seeing Sir Claude Durham, Count of Damscar, he set down his goblet and extended a very warm embrace to his first and dearest friend from the academy, now a year past graduation. Duke Jasper’s son and heir revealed candidly that his father had encouraged him to look among the ladies for a wife. His assessment? Sir Claude shrugged: he was still looking.
“Have you met my family?” Sir Holbrook asked Princess Sabrina. “Would it please you to do so?”
“Very much,” she answered.
The pair wended through the crowded ballroom to the area the Meinrads had staked out to greet well-wishers. All were bursting with pride when introductions were made between Her Royal Highness the Princess Sabrina of Khryterdon and Sir Holbrook’s parents His Grace William, Duke of Grenechey and Her Grace Duchess Charlotte, and Holbrook’s brothers Garrett Meinrad, Count of Dulcissime, and Father Walcott Meinrad, assistant to the Bishop of Newvyem, and Holbrook’s sister Merritt Ordonaer, Countess of Aefnung.
Princess Monica approached this group and courteously drew Sabrina aside.
“His Highness has not yet asked me to dance,” she complained to Latimer’s sister.
“The prince does not dance with anyone unless so compelled by the King.”
Prince Latimer had the good breeding to extend his congratulations to the Lasseter and Gondebaer families with regard to Sir Hector’s achievement. Seeing all the knights in their finery tonight excited a desire in his heart to achieve the same success upon his graduation, which would coincide with the momentous anniversary of the Order. (Even though it would mean enduring a ball.) As Prince of Khryterdon he was required to attend these galas annually regardless, how supreme to be one of the honored!
Sir Claude proved to be a witty dance partner. Princess Sabrina thanked him for his attention.
She had hardly set foot off the dance floor when a new partner presented himself in time for the next tune. Sabrina had no escape and had to allow Prince Wesley to take her hand. She noted that he seemed adequately skilled in the modern mode and said so.
He replied, “My skill pales beside yours. Your every look and move is perfection. My lady possesses every virtue I could desire in a woman, everything I could dream of.”
Princess Sabrina had to laugh. “You alone, my lord, would accuse me of perfection. Thankfully, no one else does.”
“Please do not laugh, my lady. I truly admire you.”
Princess Sabrina did not respond. Her mind was searching for a place of refuge in this room away from Prince Wesley, and she no longer cared if she danced elegantly or even skillfully. Giving him only the most cursory expression of thanks at the tune’s end she strode straight to the hen coop slyly dominated by Lady Philana. The ladies made room for her to sit and got her a cup of wine when requested. They created a fortress around her which no man dared to breach, except for one brave knight:
For the last dance of the gala Sir Holbrook led Princess Sabrina onto the dance floor. The knight from Amberlane had chosen a pretty Galshan girl named Lady Edith Ramsey for this dance. Then, with a bemused smile, Sabrina noticed that Prince Latimer was dancing with Princess Monica. Sabrina turned her attention back to her dancing partner. At the tournament tomorrow the court would revel in the display of the Griffins’ martial skills. But for now, the pair was content not to speak, only to dance.
Standing beside the royal dais where King Roderick was raising his glass with the Joaillian ambassador in a toast honoring King Dojglas, Prince Wesley coldly observed the princess and the knight.
A knock on her door announced the entry of her maids to gown her body and dress her long black hair for the ball. The maids moved easily about the spacious chamber. Like all of the apartments at Bounbrow Palace the princess’ two rooms had cleanly whitewashed plaster walls decorated with a small painting on wood panel and perhaps a tapestry situated above the wainscoting of natural oak. Sabrina’s four-poster bed faced a lovely tapestry of a unicorn roaming a forest. The draperies hanging at the windows of the room were of the same sea-green damask as the curtains of her bed. A woolen rug containing the same hues found in the tapestry lay upon the room’s hardwood floor. As the royal family summered at Bounbrow the large stone fireplace in each chamber was rarely used. All the ceilings in the apartments were plastered, each frescoed differently; a blue sky with white clouds and a rainbow looked down on Sabrina. Her gowns hung in an armoire of cedar and her shoes were stored in a trunk designed for them. She sorted through the jewels she kept in a small chest on the narrow table beside her hefty Bible.
Not as beautiful as Princess Monica, Princess Sabrina was nonetheless pretty, and tonight her maids had rendered her magnificent. On the shorter side of average height, she had a good figure and carried herself well in fashionable clothes. The gown selected for her was of pale green Ispezian silk and she wore a green stone held by a golden chain at her brow. Golden ribbons were entwined in the braids that fell down her back. Hand fans had gone out of fashion—all smart girls now carried a small hand scarf to flick pertly when flirting. Monica had a knack for it, though Sabrina fretted that she herself looked like she was signaling a ship. Regardless, tonight her right hand held the accessory, appropriately emerald-colored.
She followed a footman to an anteroom near the head of the ballroom staircase where her escorts awaited her. As the banisters fashioned as intertwining gilt leaves were set too far to the sides to offer their ready stability, a painful image of herself tumbling in a heap of silk to the bottom of the white marble steps continued to torment the young princess.
The two young Griffins were dressed in the formal regalia of their Order and cut exceedingly dashing figures. They both bowed respectfully to the princess. By the look on Sir Hector’s face, culminating in his smile, he had already assessed her to be a pretty girl worthy of further attention.
“Sir Hector Lasseter of Amberlane, my lady,” he stepped forward and introduced himself with evident delight in his new title, suavely bowing again to kiss her hand.
His companion also bowed and kissed her hand as he introduced himself.
“Welcome, Sirs,” she said somewhat nervously. “The trumpets will sound shortly and we will process down the steps to His Majesty, where we stop and offer homage. The dancing begins immediately thereafter and I am to dance with one of you,” she paused awkwardly because no one had mentioned who went first nor how the choice was to be decided, and she did not want to offend either of them.
“Holbrook has primacy between us,” Sir Hector resolved it, “I shall have the honor to dance with Your Highness second, if that pleases you.”
“A fair arrangement and pleasing,” she agreed. “And you will find, Sir, a partner surpassing every quality in Princess Monica for your first dance.”
She made a little curtsy and he made a small bow.
The trumpets sounded in the room below.
Sir Holbrook offered her his right arm and said softly, “I may require a steady arm from you lest I fall on the steps in my anxiety.”
She looked momentarily bewildered that so strong a knight would make such a statement. The girl stiffened her arm to be of service should the need arise. Sir Hector ill-concealed an amused smile.
He whispered to her, “He spoke a ruse of kindness to reduce your own nervousness.”
Princess Sabrina’s deep blue eyes gazed anew at these two young men, first at Holbrook then at Hector, coloring with embarrassment that her nervousness was so obvious and that her apparent slow-wittedness for not deducing the ruse on her own had been exposed.
“You, Sir Knight, extended me no such kindness,” she reproached Sir Hector as she led them forward to the staircase while the trumpets continued to announce them expectantly.
With her anxiety over mistakes now heightened, she feared the staircase more than before, but Sir Holbrook’s firm arm gave her steady support, as did Sir Hector’s, whose solicitous gallantries were his earnest if silent apology.
An awkward silence fell between Princess Sabrina and Sir Holbrook on the dance floor as both struggled to think of a neutral topic for conversation. He spoke first, saying this was his first visit to Listroba and he found the City impressive in every way. She asked if Newvyem was a lovely city. He confessed it was falling into decline, though it was said to have been magnificent only twenty years ago. The tune ended in the middle of Sir Holbrook’s description of a hunting trip he once took through the lush green glens and meadows of Grenechey and she asked his promise to finish his narrative before the evening’s end. The knight raised an eyebrow of surprise: he had supposed she had been only politely listening.
“I have never been to Grenechey: you make it sound enchanting.”
“At your pleasure, my lady. You do all Grenechenes honor by calling our land enchanting.”
The knight led her to Sir Hector who was elegantly kissing the hand of Princess Monica, thanking her for the delight of her company. Princess Sabrina held her head up. Sir Hector seemed afraid to meet her eyes. Though when he did he saw there an openness to allow forgiveness to cover discord. Greatly relieved, he offered her his politest and humblest bow. They both found they were content to say nothing during their dance though when their eyes met there was in them a happy realization of how skilled the other was in the steps and turns of this dance. By the tune’s end this pair had turned their dance into nearly an exhibition and thanked the other with an appreciative bow and curtsy, and a smile, before parting.
Her duty completed, Sabrina headed to the refreshment table for a cup of wine. Prince Latimer was already there, getting a refill.
Her twin was perhaps an inch shorter than average height, with a slender build and light brown hair, and he was trying to grow a mustache. Gestation in the womb together was all these two siblings had in common. Princess Sabrina always felt a certain satisfaction that she was the one who had emerged first. It was a sore spot for Prince Latimer who disliked being second at anything. He also disliked balls as an excessive waste of time and money on something as pointless as dancing. Sabrina once told him he would probably think differently were he a better dancer. Forced to be here, the prince moved uncomfortably in the ribbons and laces ornamenting his suit, preferring the simplicity of a cadet’s uniform. His furlough from the Military Academy was three weeks, but for him that was two and a half weeks too long.
“Two suitors?” Prince Latimer mused with pointed disinterest.
“More than two tonight, I’ll wager you,” his sister retorted and walked away with her goblet to find Monica, to learn her impression of the two knights.
Queen Beatrice had her ladies around her like hens in a coop. Chief among them was Lady Philana Cosgrove, aged forty-five, whose blonde hair was pulled so tightly into a bun that Sabrina wondered if the woman’s severe disposition was due to constant headaches. Were it not that shorn hair was the punishment levied on debauched women, the princess would have gladly shed some of the weight of her brunette tresses.
Lady Philana was led to the dance floor by her husband Sir Langdon, accompanied by Duke Albert and Duchess Maud of Lophain, Sir Doran and Lady Veda of Whitelaw, and Duke Jasper and Duchess Cornelia of Curlowen, to perform two courtly dances from their generation’s era.
“The old dances are vastly superior to our modern ones,” said a voice beside Princess Sabrina.
Turning, she discovered the speaker was Prince Wesley, Viscount Ternsmeade, heir to the Duchy of Lairenkin, attractively laced into a doublet of white silk heavily embroidered with russet oak leaf motifs. Though only two years older than she, he carried himself with the learned air of a man of thirty and took great pride in the trim black beard he had grown. She had forgotten he would be here tonight.
“Have you skill in the old dances?” she inquired.
“My dance master is a man of middle years and has the highest credentials. He studied under the great masters at Adergarhn and instilled in me the utmost respect for tradition. Too often the wisdom of men of age and experience is undervalued; too often this generation fails to give ear and honor to the perspective of our elders.”
Sabrina had stopped listening to him half way through his non-answer and was scanning for a polite way to extricate herself. She stated she was hungry and headed to the buffet table. Prince Wesley followed, offering to assist her.
“Next year,” he predicted with confidence and a flush of fervor, “Your Highness will be escorting me down those stairs to this ball.”
The idea horrified the young woman and she said a quick, silent prayer asking that such be prevented.
As he took over the task of filling her plate she spied Sir Holbrook between dancing partners.
“Excuse me, my lord,” she said to Prince Wesley and left him holding the plate.
Princess Sabrina crossed the ballroom to intercept the knight. Prince Wesley followed.
The princess was compelled to introduce the two men, then she implored Sir Holbrook to finish his narrative about hunting in the wilds of Grenechey, that the tale would thrill Prince Wesley.
Sir Holbrook amiably rambled on about how to track boar through a glen, then stated his opinion that the finest cabinetmakers in the realm are from the workshops of Newvyem, and went on about the renown Grenechey rightly receives for its exceptional cheeses, beers, cashmeres and woolens, and then described in detail how sheep are shorn, saying that as a boy he tried his hand at several of the rustic arts and had hours of stories to tell.
At this point, the backwardness of Grenechenes confirmed for him, Viscount Ternsmeade voiced his sudden need to speak with Princess Monica.
“Did I perform to your satisfaction?” Sir Holbrook inquired.
Sabrina’s cheeks colored.
“Sir, I beg you, forgive the ploy. That was my intention on the one hand, but believe that I have a genuine interest in your tales on the other and did sincerely wish to hear more of the boar hunt—without him at my elbow.”
To gauge her sincerity he asked, “Would my lady be interested in hearing the story of when I accidentally trod on a skunk when I was nine?”
Sabrina smiled. “Very much. And would my lord care to hear of the time when I rescued a wounded rabbit in the woods of Dorlevan?”
He inclined his head politely, though with an agreeable smile.
Prince Latimer kept to the rear of the festivities, a filled wine goblet always in his hand, preferring to converse with his fellow academy cadets about various martial arts. Seeing Sir Claude Durham, Count of Damscar, he set down his goblet and extended a very warm embrace to his first and dearest friend from the academy, now a year past graduation. Duke Jasper’s son and heir revealed candidly that his father had encouraged him to look among the ladies for a wife. His assessment? Sir Claude shrugged: he was still looking.
“Have you met my family?” Sir Holbrook asked Princess Sabrina. “Would it please you to do so?”
“Very much,” she answered.
The pair wended through the crowded ballroom to the area the Meinrads had staked out to greet well-wishers. All were bursting with pride when introductions were made between Her Royal Highness the Princess Sabrina of Khryterdon and Sir Holbrook’s parents His Grace William, Duke of Grenechey and Her Grace Duchess Charlotte, and Holbrook’s brothers Garrett Meinrad, Count of Dulcissime, and Father Walcott Meinrad, assistant to the Bishop of Newvyem, and Holbrook’s sister Merritt Ordonaer, Countess of Aefnung.
Princess Monica approached this group and courteously drew Sabrina aside.
“His Highness has not yet asked me to dance,” she complained to Latimer’s sister.
“The prince does not dance with anyone unless so compelled by the King.”
Prince Latimer had the good breeding to extend his congratulations to the Lasseter and Gondebaer families with regard to Sir Hector’s achievement. Seeing all the knights in their finery tonight excited a desire in his heart to achieve the same success upon his graduation, which would coincide with the momentous anniversary of the Order. (Even though it would mean enduring a ball.) As Prince of Khryterdon he was required to attend these galas annually regardless, how supreme to be one of the honored!
Sir Claude proved to be a witty dance partner. Princess Sabrina thanked him for his attention.
She had hardly set foot off the dance floor when a new partner presented himself in time for the next tune. Sabrina had no escape and had to allow Prince Wesley to take her hand. She noted that he seemed adequately skilled in the modern mode and said so.
He replied, “My skill pales beside yours. Your every look and move is perfection. My lady possesses every virtue I could desire in a woman, everything I could dream of.”
Princess Sabrina had to laugh. “You alone, my lord, would accuse me of perfection. Thankfully, no one else does.”
“Please do not laugh, my lady. I truly admire you.”
Princess Sabrina did not respond. Her mind was searching for a place of refuge in this room away from Prince Wesley, and she no longer cared if she danced elegantly or even skillfully. Giving him only the most cursory expression of thanks at the tune’s end she strode straight to the hen coop slyly dominated by Lady Philana. The ladies made room for her to sit and got her a cup of wine when requested. They created a fortress around her which no man dared to breach, except for one brave knight:
For the last dance of the gala Sir Holbrook led Princess Sabrina onto the dance floor. The knight from Amberlane had chosen a pretty Galshan girl named Lady Edith Ramsey for this dance. Then, with a bemused smile, Sabrina noticed that Prince Latimer was dancing with Princess Monica. Sabrina turned her attention back to her dancing partner. At the tournament tomorrow the court would revel in the display of the Griffins’ martial skills. But for now, the pair was content not to speak, only to dance.
Standing beside the royal dais where King Roderick was raising his glass with the Joaillian ambassador in a toast honoring King Dojglas, Prince Wesley coldly observed the princess and the knight.
