Two weeks flew past, and then the third dragged by. Beatrice tried her best to stay occupied—exploring the gardens and the markets that dotted the streets of Mahaut. Just as he’d said, Riccardo had to carry a purse of coins for her and speak to merchants she wished to engage. In the walled gardens that dotted the city, she could not walk freely down the paths. Beatrice was obliged to move between fixed galleries to view the flowerbeds, even in the Public Garden where the grounds covered half a mile. The dirt from the ground stained the hem of her veils.
Beatrice ran out of things to do. She’d seen all over the market. She’d danced at nearly every lord’s house. She thought she would go mad with the tedium. Ammar kept her stuck in a never-ending reel—around and around to the gardens, the market, the houses. She waited as well as a sixteen-year-old girl could wait. When she hit this innate limit, she began to sulk.
She asked Riccardo, “Where is he? Do you think something has happened?”
“Perhaps he realized he doesn’t want to marry you,” Riccardo teased. Then, when he saw Beatrice’s real distress, he softened: “I heard Gruffydd say the Prince was off sledding in the hills and that some natural disaster occurred. It may be that the road is blocked... Do you remember the map of Ammar? Can you still read a map, or has this place already made you go dimwitted?”
“Dick, I could draw the map myself—in three languages—if I had paper and ink,” Beatrice said. Sadly, Gruffydd had not provided her with anything for entertainment or contemplation other than prayer books. “Do you think... Ammar wants out of the marriage? That they’re keeping the Prince from us?”
“No chance,” Riccardo laughed. “King Anathas is already organizing a war council to consult on the crusade into Nynomath. He needs our father to fund it and our ports to move his army past the Horn.”
Beatrice could picture the Horn of Nynomath in her mind even without a map. On a clear day on Sanchia’s northern beach, you could see the white peaks of the rocky peninsula across the sea.
The memory of the sight filled her with more frustration. She wanted to do something besides dancing.
By the end of the fourth week with no word from the Prince, she asked Riccardo to take her back to their ship in the harbor. To reunite with her trousseau of fine clothes and pretty things brought from home, at least, if not her knives.
LORD GRUFFYDD SENT for Lady Alys, a distant aunt, to visit him in Mahaut to act as chaperone for Beatrice while she lived in his house. He would not dine with her and Riccardo unless the aunt escorted him. Beatrice couldn’t understand the need for it—the great lord was more than four times her own age and thrice widowed. How anyone could accuse the betrothed of Prince Anryniel of impropriety with such an old man was beyond Beatrice. Still, Riccardo insisted they observe the custom and that Beatrice keep her veil while they ate together.
The women sat across from the men at the table, the aunt opposite Gruffydd so that he would address only her directly. A tasteful floral arrangement blocked Beatrice’s line of sight to Gruffydd, leaving her only Riccardo’s ugly mug to smirk at through dinner. Gruffydd’s aunt spoke pleasantly enough, but she barely murmured more than three words to Beatrice, preferring to spend her energy on eating.
Beatrice watched Aunt Alys’s technique. The auntie cut her meat and vegetables into little pieces and sandwiched them between bits of the bread to bring the food beneath her veil. Much less messy than attempting to maneuver a fork beneath expensive silk and intricate embroidery. She filed this away for when she would be invited to dine in public with her prince. By the end of the second course, Beatrice’s veil was stained with grease while Aunt Gruffydd’s own veil was spotless.
Beatrice kicked Riccardo under the table. She nodded her head in Gruffydd’s direction.
“What?” Riccardo hissed.
“Ask him about the wedding,” Beatrice said. When Riccardo did not immediately respond, she raised her voice and said, “Lord Gruffydd—we are in your debt! My father told me that the feasts for the wedding are being prepared by your own caterer!”
Gruffydd did not respond to her; this would have been improper. He addressed himself to his aunt: “I do look forward to Prince Anryniel’s wedding. We’ve prepared many of Sanchia’s native dishes for the feast of the first night—braised meats, spiced cheeses, and the like. For the second, it’ll be a series of game courses; you know how the King does love his elk. And on the night of the... the, ah... consummation... oysters and figs. It is a shame we cannot invite all the kingdom, Aunt, but there will be tables set throughout the capital at lesser houses. I am sure you will quite enjoy the spread.”
“Quite,” said Aunt Alys. She sawed a piece of bread in half and squeezed it around a slice of meat.
At last, the Queen of Ammar sent for Beatrice to join her for church that week. This was an important moment for Beatrice. She’d finally meet her future mother-in-law—and seize a chance to recover from her embarrassing introduction to the King.
Church formed the center of great ladies’ lives—the convergence of fashion, social standing, devotion, and male attention. Queen Eva had a special relationship with the Church of Ammar. When King Anathas wanted to marry her—a common woman he met by chance in a forest—the senior-most clergy had at first denied the match. The Queen came to this council of priests, humble and sincere, clad head to toe in the black silk veils of widows. She swore that she would live all her life with them as a widow if she could not live with her King as a wife. The show of piety moved the priests, and thereafter, the veil became not only fashionable, but forced.
Beatrice chose her silver belt for the occasion and one of her opaque three-tiered veils she’d brought for the wedding. The layers would keep her warm and her hands hidden, lest she twiddle her fingers when she grew bored during the service. She tied on the stiffest collar the wife of the cook could starch for her to wear beneath it and indulged in a few taps of pink powder against her lips, even if no one would see them beneath the layers of veils. The color gave her confidence, and the belt kept her back straight.
“You look lovely,” Riccardo said when Beatrice glided into the foyer of Gruffydd’s house. He waited there with Gruffydd himself and Aunt Alys, ready to escort the ladies to church, more jeweled pins in his cap.
Lord Gruffydd made no comment on Beatrice’s appearance. Instead, he inclined his head in her general direction, which made the little silver bells attached to his floppy silk hat tinkle.
Aunt Alys, dressed in a dowdy maroon veil that dragged on the ground, sniffed and glanced back toward the dining table where servants cleared the early breakfast served that day. Beatrice had skipped the meal in favor of preparing her outfit. She wanted everything to be perfect when she met her soon-to-be mother-in-law.
Beatrice could not quite work out Queen Eva’s age. Perhaps younger than the Lightning King, but roughly the age of a grandmother, Beatrice thought. She warmed to the idea that the Queen of Ammar might be like the old ladies at her father’s court in Sanchia: knowing, quick-witted, and always looking to take young maidens under their wings.
When Beatrice met her mother-in-law to be on the steps of the church, she quickly revised her opinion. Queen Eva was as thin as her husband, though not quite as tall. She stood ramrod straight on the steps of the church, like a knife plunged into the steps. Over her blue gown, a single layered veil one shade darker barely stirred in the wind for the weight of embroidery holding it down. Five pounds of silver and gold thread at least, Beatrice guessed, studying the whorls in the silk that ran from forehead to toe.