Andrea's Diary

Andrea’s

Diary

Angelique Lacroix

AuthorHouse™

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2010 Angelique Lacroix. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/3/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9534-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9535-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9536-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010916691

Printed in the United States of America

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

For my husband and my two

daughters, who provided

input, advice, and inspiration.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Andrus

The pages of the journal were yellowed and brittle with age, its hand-sewn binding frayed from much use. On its worn leather cover, the letter ‘A’ was embossed with a graceful flourish. The journal’s contents were written with a feminine hand. Within its pages were many secrets. I knew them by heart, word for word. I had read them hundreds of times since the diary was first put into my hands, twenty years ago. Those very secrets had molded me, transforming me from the naïve young man I once was into the ruthless and judicious man I am now, in my middle years. They shaped me much as a sculptor shapes stone, chipping and smoothing until the final work no longer resembles the crude mass from which it came.

Each time I study the diary, it reinforces my resolve to avenge a terrible wrong. When I touch the fragile, tear-stained pages, a murderous rage rises up from my gut to consume me in its power. I am compelled by a single-minded purpose—to punish the vile man who sought to destroy me and to annihilate his line, thus ridding the earth of his filth and corruption.

Still, I might allow one member of his house to live, if I am so inclined, when I find him. Andrea cherished this one above all others, forfeiting her own life to ensure that his would continue. To kill him would be to end her line, and the very thought of it brings me fresh sorrow.

This one, the one who had been a young child when Andrea penned her final words, was now a man. He would be as old as I was when Andrea’s diary was delivered to me, and the course of my life was irrevocably fixed.

CHAPTER ONE

How I wish I could be there when my sons are grown, when they find wives and have children. They have been the delight of my life, and I have dreamt of someday holding my grandchildren. But this dream is not to be.

Andrea’s Diary

Year 10, Month 5

Vanessa

The Middle Ages were past, and a new school of thought was sweeping the continent like a refreshing spring breeze after a long, harsh winter. People were tired of wars and forced religion, weary of corrupt bishops and popes, disillusioned by the endless bickering between Protestant and Catholic leaders over what they perceived as truth and heresy. Men looked forward to a day when those in power were ruled by peace and reason rather than a lust for conquest or a misguided mission to appease an angry God.

While the religious leaders were sharply divided, the same did not hold true for the common folk. Catholics and Protestants lived in harmony, if not in full agreement. Those who adhered to either faith held their beliefs tightly, while a third and rapidly increasing group was interested in philosophy of human origin as opposed to celestial. For those, art and literature and academia replaced religion, and as knowledge increased, morality declined. The quest for culture and refinement consumed them with a passion equal to that of the religious quarter. Yet the greatest desire of all people, regardless of their persuasion, was to live in peace.

Pockets of hostilities remained, however, and these were tumultuous times all over the world. Civil wars periodically ravaged the great French and English empires of the west. The mysterious territories of the far north, resolute in their quest for riches and new worlds beyond the oceans, were more infamous for their willingness to raid and conquer those who lived nearest them. Lesser kingdoms sprung up in the middle and eastern lands, founded either by men of faith who sought to spread the Good News, or men of a more selfish spirit with a mind to build their realms on the backs of the weak.

The Holy Roman Empire was fighting a battle of a different sort. Having lost its military might and political power a millennium earlier, it struggled to keep its grip on the necks of the peasantry and aristocracy alike, as Greek philosophy eased its way into the daily lives of Europeans. But as with its military, Rome’s ecumenical sway was strong only with the cooperation of the Emperor.

I was the daughter of King Thomas Fitzgerald II, ruler of the country of Donnegan, in the south-central territory of our vast continent. Donnegan was a Catholic nation, with a growing number of Protestant settlements scattered throughout the land. The possibility of inner turmoil was always with us, but with the exception of the occasional fistfight or a loud debate between handfuls of peasants with opposing religious views, we lived quietly.

My father could trace his ancestry eight generations, beginning with the patriarch of his family, Lord Fitzgerald of Kinsale, Ireland. Lord Fitzgerald’s youngest son Kenneth was a devout Catholic with a calling to the ministry. When he was twenty-two years of age, Kenneth left his homeland, and he crossed land and sea to settle in what was now our royal city of Somerset.

What he found in his travels were loosely connected groups of people ruled by tribal leaders, united by locale yet divided by clan. The young missionary saw an opportunity to build a righteous nation with sound Christian principles, and through his patience and tireless work among the inhabitants of the land, Kenneth became King Kenneth Fitzgerald, then twenty-five years old. He named his kingdom Donnegan after his mother’s clan in southern Ireland.

Ruling with wisdom and fairness, as a modern day Solomon, King Kenneth—popularly known as King Fitzgerald—won the hearts and the loyalty of those he governed. Remaining true to his higher calling, he established churches in many nearby villages. Wherever a church was planted, the land was claimed and assimilated into Donnegan.

Upon King Fitzgerald’s death, the monarchy passed to his eldest son. King Fitzgerald II ruled with the same fair-mindedness and justice as his father before him. The Fitzgerald line continued, generation after generation, and my father ascended to the throne of Donnegan thirty-two years ago. Our nation had ceased to expand its borders three generations back, when other small kingdoms arose and claimed property and people for themselves. Though the accumulation of land came to an end, prosperity within our land increased, making ours one of the richest of the minor kingdoms of our time.

Donnegan boasted some of the finest craftsmen in the region. Men were skilled in music and art, farming, woodwork and stonework, architecture and building, winemaking; our blacksmiths, silversmiths, and goldsmiths were without equal. Women were expert at all sorts of needlework from tatting to embroidery, weaving to dressmaking. And as far as I knew, there wasn’t a person in the entire country who did not love dancing. Music and dancing were two of the special gifts that parents passed down to their children, and this heritage was preserved with more zeal and diligence than any trade or handcraft.

In spite of the turmoil in the larger surrounding empires, life in Donnegan was blessed. Its people were happy, friendly, kind to strangers, generous to the poor, loyal to their King and Queen. Ours was an idyllic life in the midst of a chaotic world. How long this sweet tranquility would last, only God knew. It had so far spanned more than two centuries, if one discounted the minor battles with would-be invaders. Surely no other country in history enjoyed this type of existence for as long as ours.

If there was one immediate threat to our serene oasis, it was a neighboring kingdom with a hunger for conquest. Two decades after the founding of Donnegan, a marauding army led by a clan from the north swept past our eastern border. They paused in their crusade long enough to test our strength, and found it to be more than they had expected. But they merely toyed with us. Donnegan was not the object of their quest.

The leader of the clan had his eye on the sparsely settled territory that lay to our south and east. In a fierce battle that left hundreds of the inhabitants dead and their army destroyed, the invaders took over the land and all its survivors. The founder proclaimed himself king, and he named his realm Greyston, after the gray stones that made up much of the rocky, mountainous terrain of its northernmost provinces. With the rugged mountains to their north and the sea to their south, they carved out a highly secure kingdom impervious to potential attackers and invaders.

The clan and soldiers sent for their families, and their numbers increased tenfold in a single generation. These invaders spoke a strange language. The native tongue of the country, once part of their long heritage, became muddled as the two languages blended and the accent grew pronouncedly different.

After the founding king died and a new king arose, Greyston became a quiet, peaceable country, freely trading with neighboring lands and allowing travelers to pass unmolested through their borders. Seafarers docked in her ports, and merchants from distant lands brought exotic materials and livestock to trade and sell. Everything that passed through Greyston’s ports was subject to taxation by the King’s treasurers, and the land grew fat on the wealth of the traders. Peace and prosperity abounded in the formerly disorganized, hostile kingdom. However, that peace was not to last.

Greyston’s current monarch, King Willem, was a warmonger like his forefathers had been in centuries past. The early years of his reign were calm, but for the last twenty-five years he had attacked his neighbors without provocation. After he conquered some minor dukedoms to the east and west of Greyston, he grew bolder and attacked nearby kingdoms. It was a futile effort, but he was determined to expand his borders, even if only by miniscule amounts.

On two occasions, he set his sights on Donnegan. We shared a small section of our southeastern border with Greyston, and Willem set his armies upon us at what he thought were our weakest points—in the rural areas between villages. To his consternation, our larger army was able to repel his forces, and he quickly retreated. His second attack was fiercer but had the same result. Finding us to be a formidable foe, he ceased his attacks and peace returned. But as long as he ruled, the possibility of war remained.

The world was changing indeed, but regardless of the changes around us, morality certainly was not on the decline in my family as long as Mother had a say in things. My parents were Catholic and they raised my brother and me to follow the teachings of the Church. We attended mass every Sunday, and my brother and I received private catechism lessons from our youth to our mid-adolescent years.

My mother and father had a close, loving relationship. The attraction that formed and held their deep bond was a combination of physical, intellectual, and spiritual admiration. Their parents had arranged their marriage and they knew virtually nothing about each other when they wed. This was the norm for those of noble birth, but I was averse to marrying under such disagreeable conditions.

My father’s Irish ancestry was evident in his features. His hair was thick and wavy, the color of burnished copper. Auburn hair, fair skin, and jade-colored eyes marked many in our family line, setting the descendants of the Fitzgeralds apart from the people who had lived in Donnegan before the time of King Kenneth.

Father attended church out of a sense of obligation, as it was a king’s responsibility to be a good example to his people. Not only so, but he took his role as husband and father more seriously than his duty to his subjects. If he fell short on religious matters, it was not because he had lost his faith in God, but that he had lost patience with the hierarchy of the Church in Rome.

Mother, on the other hand, was considered by most to be a true Catholic, born and raised in Rome. There was no dissuading her on the issue of religion. She made certain that our household—family, visitors, and servants alike—strictly observed every holy day of obligation, adhered to the fasting season of Lent, and that we took our faith more seriously than breathing. Her attitude toward Protestant people was one of tolerant pity. She believed they had strayed, but innocently; in seeking freedom from the domination of the papacy, they found themselves trying to make sense of things not meant for common, mortal man to comprehend.

My mother’s name was Antonia Maria, and she was full-blooded Italian, born into a noble family with a history of colorful characters and their daring exploits. Legend had it that one of her ancestors was a senator in the time of Julius Caesar, but I was skeptical as to the validity of such a claim. The sparkle in Mother’s eyes when she spoke of them hinted at amusement, not family pride.

Mother was stunningly beautiful. She detested her olive skin, coveting instead the creamy white skin that was considered essential to female beauty. Nonetheless, her complexion enhanced her looks. Her hair was darkest brown, almost black, thick and wavy, and when seen in candlelight it was interwoven with fine golden strands. Deep green eyes adorned her slightly rounded face like gemstones—strong eyes, my father called them—and though women of our day downplayed their eyes and emphasized their lips, Mother’s eyes were arguably her best physical feature. Her forehead was high and noble, and she left her dark brows natural, in a subtle arch, whereas the more fashion-conscious highborn ladies plucked their brows into thin crescents. She was voluptuous and soft, and her clothing accentuated her enviable curves.

My brother and heir to the throne was Thomas III. To avoid the confusion that resulted from naming one’s son after his father, my parents gave him the middle name Frederik. Erik, as he was known to family and close friends, was Crown Prince, though growing up with him I found it hard to believe he could ever rule a household, much less a country.

Erik was four years older than I. He was wild of heart and free of spirit, as attractive and charming a young man as had ever lived. His keen intelligence, coupled with his knowledge of government, history, and geography, made him the perfect candidate for the kingship. But apart from his political acumen, he was rarely serious. He lived for sport and drink, for women and celebration.

Erik had Mother’s brilliant green eyes, hooded by heavy lids and shaded by dark brows and lashes. His hair was black as ebony, long and shiny. His moustache and chin beard were cropped short and meticulously groomed. The contrast of his dark hair and fair skin created an appealing combination. Women vied for his attention, and men envied his striking looks. If he left no other mark in history, he would be Donnegan’s handsomest king.

I was youngest in our house, and the only daughter. My parents wanted more children, but God or Nature prevented Mother from conceiving again after I was born. Mother had two miscarriages between Erik’s birth and mine. Thus, the continuation of our bloodline rested upon Erik and, to a far lesser extent, upon me.

Both my parents were taller than average, and they passed that trait to Erik and me. In my youth I felt conspicuously malformed, towering over my friends like an ungainly, scrawny giantess. Now, I was as tall as most adult men, at five feet nine inches in my stocking feet. Erik achieved a height of about six feet four inches, or if one believed his exaggerated account, at least seven feet. At least.

While Erik loved swordsmanship and archery, my interest lay in history, and my talent was in sketching and painting. Tutors were employed to help us develop those skills. Erik quickly became proficient with the sword and the bow. When his lessons ended, he insisted upon learning other fighting skills, like throwing daggers with lethal accuracy. Useless abilities, it seemed, for a future king.

My painting talent was minimal, according to my tutor, and the lessons soon became taxing. The instructor was an artist of some renown. He was a perfectionist, and he expected nothing less than excellence from his pupils. While I learned a great deal from him about light and shadow, pigments, texture, brush strokes, and the like, it was clear I would never rank among the great artists. My failure to achieve his level of expertise disappointed and irritated him. In turn, his nagging irritated me. I was happy with my progress despite his prodding. For my personal pleasure, I painted well enough.

Well enough was not acceptable to my tutor. He had been charged with helping me reach my full potential and, by heaven, he was going to see it through even if it killed one of us. Disagreement turned to friction, which escalated into a quarrel between us. And just as the ox resists the yoke, I firmly planted my feet in the soil and refused to budge.

The tutor’s last words to me made me furious: "My Lady, to resist sound instruction to the point of one’s own hurt is foolhardy. To resist merely because one can resist is due to one’s pride. The good Lord resists the proud. How, then, will you explain yourself to Him?"

I angrily dismissed him for daring to reprimand me in such a manner. Later, I felt guilty for being callous with him, but felt no regret for my mulishness. He was right; I was stubborn. But I was stubborn enough not to admit that truth to him.

Life in the castle sheltered us from outside influence. Its thick sandstone walls, strong and immovable, symbolized the social barrier between nobility and the populace. The high bulwarks surrounding the grounds provided further insulation between our family and the gentry, and beyond them, the townsfolk who made up the majority of Somerset’s citizens.

Erik and I had friends among the gentry, but we had limited contact with the common people. If truth be told, we knew virtually nothing about the townspeople. We knew of them, but little about how they lived. Apart from the few, brief times of interaction with our servants—the housekeepers, messengers, tailors and seamstresses, stable boys, tutors, and personal maids—we were as far removed from them as we were from foreign countries. At times, the societal rules perplexed me. They seemed unnecessarily severe and patronizing, but this was our way of life in sixteenth century Donnegan and throughout the world.

Our haven crumbled the day my mother died. She suffered intermittent health problems over the years, but she had always recovered. We were unaware, though, that each time she fell ill, her body was left weaker and less able to combat the next spell. The last was the most serious malady, and for the physicians who attended her, the most baffling.

A mysterious, lingering illness eventually took her life, but not before it had mercilessly ravaged her body. The physicians were unable to do more than try to keep her comfortable. They did not know what caused her to waste away before our eyes. Her illness initially raised fears that the plague of the Great Mortality had returned, but her symptoms were markedly different from those of plague victims. There were no swellings or darkening of her skin, but there was a persistent fever, and body aches that could neither be explained nor relieved.

As the months passed and the illness progressed, her lovely dark hair lost its sheen, the sparkle in her eyes dimmed to a dull glassiness, and she lost so much weight that she looked frighteningly skeletal. She suffered from raw, painful bedsores that would not heal. Her graying skin indicated impending death. We clung to baseless hope and we prayed desperate prayers, but in the end there was nothing left to do but accept the inevitable—if God Himself didn’t cure her sickness, Mother would die. For all Father’s influence and wealth, he was as helpless as an infant against the disease that was slowly, inexorably taking Mother’s life.

When she finally succumbed to the illness, I was devastated, paralyzed by grief. The intensity of my pain seemed disproportionate to the loss itself, and that loss was indescribably acute. Mother had been my friend, mentor, and ally, and I missed her with an aching emptiness that gave me no peace. My playful disposition had been stilled by the cold reality of death and mourning. I was angry with the God who allowed my Mother to die when He could have prevented it. Railing against Him would prove as fruitless as my prayers, so I went about in solemn silence for the first few months following Mother’s death. Erik took her death very hard as well, but he drew comfort from an inner strength I never knew he possessed. He grew quiet and introspective, but he remained composed.

While we struggled with our personal grief, Donnegan mourned its Queen. Lavish floral bouquets were placed at the palace gates daily, and churches glowed within from the countless candles burned in her memory as prayers were offered up for her soul. Friends from our city and royals from nearby lands brought words of solace, and they visited the family cemetery to pay their final respects and to place flowers and rosaries on Mother’s grave. My grandparents, old and frail as they were, made the long journey from Rome to see where their daughter had been laid to rest. Both of them looked as if they would pass away from the weight of their sorrow. My heart broke afresh when we embraced for the first time. We clung to each other and wept the tears of the profoundly bereaved.

They remained with us for several weeks, and together we cried and laughed and related stories about the wonderful woman we all adored. Talking about her life and learning of her childhood somehow brought us each a measure of comfort. A small degree to be sure, but in the early weeks after her death, a small amount of comfort was needed and welcome.

Father did his best to console us and give us as much attention as his time-consuming duties allowed. No one would ever be able to fill Mother’s place in our lives, but he was a good and loving father, concealing his own grief until late at night when he thought no one could hear his desolate sobs. My love and respect for him deepened, and in the process, my anguish turned to melancholy. As we marked the first anniversary of her passing, we had recaptured some of our former joy in life. Mother would have been pleased.

By age twenty-seven, Erik was still unwed and showed no interest in marriage (though his interest in women was widely known). The time had not yet come for him to concern himself with producing heirs, but Father expressed, with increasing frequency, his desire to see his grandchildren before he joined Mother in heaven.

Gradually our lives returned to what would now be normal, considering we had lost the heart of our household. Erik resumed his training in archery while I turned again to painting, but without a tutor. The pleasure I found in art helped fill the barrenness created by Mother’s passing, and I devoted countless hours to becoming as proficient an artist as Erik was a swordsman. I never reached the level of expertise my former instructor desired of me, but I improved my skills and was comfortable with my talent. Several of my paintings adorned the castle walls, and Father pointed them out to every visitor with shameless paternal pride.

As most young women do, I dreamed of the day I would marry a king and rule alongside him. Regrettably, it would not be in my homeland. Erik would rule Donnegan, and I would have to marry someone from another land, a lesser prince from a nearby country, someone of a lower position such as a duke or a count, or, to my father’s utter horror, a commoner. The latter option was strictly forbidden. Mother had groomed me to be a queen as she was, not the wife of what was termed a lesser man, but meaning them no slight. Nobility wed nobility.

My parents had loved each other, but their cultural differences sparked many a quarrel. This, I supposed, was what took place in the average marriage, but I would never quarrel with my husband when I married. I had decided that my marriage would be legendary in its perfection. My mate would understand my wants and needs as thoroughly as I did his, and we would spend our lives fulfilling each other’s dreams. As long as I did not share this fantasy with anyone, it could remain a possibility. I preferred not to ruin my foolish imagining by allowing reality to intrude upon it, or by subjecting myself to the ridicule that hid beneath the guise of common sense and good advice.

Despite all my dreams and plans, never did I expect to learn, on my twenty-third birthday, that I was to be part of a political marriage arranged by Father without my knowledge or consent. It was high-handed of me to assume my consent was required or considered. Still, I would have preferred to be consulted before the agreement was made.

My future husband was the first son of King Willem of Greyston, the same king who had sent his armies to our borders. Why he sought to make this alliance was suspect at best. What did he hope to gain? If I had the power to surrender my country to him, I would die before committing such treason. I was not the heir to the throne. I had no independent wealth to bring to a marriage. My dowry would be a handsome sum in gems and gold, but the coffers of Greyston were full enough without it.

The Prince’s name was Ian. Father had met him only once, very briefly, and all he knew about him was that he was reputed to be a great general on the battlefield. Praiseworthy as that may have been, I did not find it a desirable characteristic in a husband. Donnegan was secure, and we could quickly summon a fearsome army if war broke out. I saw no reason to marry a general who had spent most of his adult life killing and pillaging.

I tried to tell Father how much I resisted this marriage, how I hated the thought of being forced to marry this foreign man—a man I knew nothing about and would probably never love. The history of animosity between Greyston and Donnegan colored my opinion of him, and I did not know if I could overcome the prejudice I held against him and his people. Whether I was being unreasonable or merely using any excuse to try to dissuade Father from his course, he listened indulgently before asserting this marriage was for the good of all concerned, and most of all, for the good of Donnegan.

Please, Father, I entreated, make me understand why this marriage is necessary. We aren’t at war with Greyston. Is their King threatening to attack us again? Can we not defeat him as we did before? Why is there such urgency for me to leave my home without knowing whom I am marrying or what kind of dreadful life I will have in this wretched Greyston? How is it that you can so easily send me away to marry the son of our enemy? I was babbling, but fear and frustration drove me to say anything that might persuade him to reconsider his plan.

Father sat with me, held both of my hands in his, and patiently tried to address each of my many questions. No, Vanessa, we aren’t at war with Greyston and there has been no threat. This is a political and a personal matter. I wish to put an end to any possibility of war between us in the future. With our families joined, there will be no chance of war.

This is nothing more than a political marriage, I corrected him. "There is no personal aspect to it, except I will have to have a very personal relationship with this Ian fellow."

Vanessa dear, you’re wrong, Father said gently. "In the past months I have cultivated a friendship with King Willem. He regrets his aggression against us and against other lands. He is getting old, as I am, and he wants to ensure a peaceful reign for his son. King Willem is a good man despite the mistakes of his youth. And he is most assuredly not our enemy.

He shared with me some of his family history. There are many great men who preceded him—men of courage and vision and honor. King Willem and I agree that Greyston will be a stronger kingdom with you as its queen.

Is King Willem trying to secure his throne by this marriage? I demanded, convinced there was more to this marriage proposition than the perfidious Willem had led Father to believe. Our ancestry is without question, and we can trace our lineage back many generations. King Willam’s ancestry is not known, and his kingdom started by war and was taken by force. Willem is probably a commoner himself, I finished with a smug toss of my head.

Father withdrew his hands from mine. That is very unkind of you, Vanessa, he scolded. His patience with my willfulness had run out. King Willem is of noble blood, and you will not speak of him with disrespect. He rules a large land, his army is highly trained, and they are loyal to their King. He has two fine, respected sons who are princes and soldiers. Willem is no commoner. His pause underscored his words. When he spoke again his tone was gentle, but the words were hard. You are a princess, Vanessa, and your mother raised you to be a queen. With your station come duties that are not always pleasant, not what you might choose for yourself. But that freedom is not available to nobility. He rose and looked down at me with compassion, but also resolution. It has been decided. We leave for Greyston in a fortnight.

His words stunned me, but I had one last plea. Hasn’t Willem any daughters? I asked hopelessly, throwing my dear brother on the altar of sacrifice.

No daughters, Father answered with an understanding smile. Only the two sons. He was not fortunate enough to have a daughter. His compliment was a kind gesture, but under the circumstances, it brought me no comfort.

Erik had come into the room and listened quietly to our conversation. If little else brought seriousness to him, this marriage proposition did so. Greyston, he mused solemnly. It’s a dangerous land. The reports I have heard indicate that they are preparing for war again. Is it wise to send Vanessa to such a place?

Father shook his head. King Willem assured me there will be no war; he wants only to live out the rest of his days in peace. I would not send my daughter there if I did not believe she would be as safe there as she is here in Somerset.

Father, that land is hardly safe, Erik pressed. My friends have seen armed squads of Greyston soldiers far outside their borders. I don’t know if they are spying out the lands or covertly occupying them, but I am convinced King Willem is not a man of peace. Nessa will have war at her doorstep, and because of the marriage and the pact you’ve made with King Willem, I will be unable to help her.

That’s enough, Erik. King Willem has assured me all is well, and I have no cause to doubt his word, nor to question his motives. Father’s stern tone clearly implied the matter was settled, and he left us before we could raise any further objections.

Erik concurred with my reluctance to marry the deplorable Greyston prince. I could tell him anything, and we talked at length about my duty, leaving Donnegan, and marrying a stranger. He allowed me to vent my anger, which was considerable.

This is wrong! I stormed. It’s not fair! Why do I have to be the one to leave my home? It was a rhetorical question; I knew the answer, but I wanted him to commiserate with me. "If this prince and his father aren’t happy in Greyston—a land they stole from her people—why don’t they leave it and return to their home in the north? Is it because they cannot, because they left in disgrace? Because they were banished? Am I nothing more than a peace offering to a wild, distant clan of barbarians with no loyalty to anyone but themselves?"

You are right, Nessa, Erik agreed. I can find no good reason for this marriage either. Let’s declare war on them. We can defeat their weak little army before they know who they’re fighting.

You need Father’s consent for that, Erik, I replied dryly. Erik had already found humor in my misfortune. Commiseration was done.

We will have to come up with a good excuse to fight them, but we will win. His eyes danced with anticipation of his fictional war. Then this marriage can be avoided, you can remain here in your own country where you belong, living out your days as a lonely old spinster, unwed and childless.

I should have known his talk would lead to nonsense. Thank you very much, I said icily. I seem to recall you are the older one. Why are you not married yet?

He tossed his hair and gave an arrogant laugh, an irritating act he performed for my benefit, knowing how much it irked me. If I married, that would mean I was tied to only one woman. A man such as I requires a harem.

I smirked at his folly. You are in the wrong country, effendi. Maybe there’s a place for you among the Turks.

He ignored my comment and asked excitedly, What kind of man do you suppose Ian will be? His ancestors were true barbarians from the north. There are gypsies and all sorts of strange people in those countries. He is probably stupid, and I’m sure he smells awful. Imagine it, Nessa, you might be marrying a barbarian who runs about in a furry loincloth and picks his teeth with the point of his spear.

Heaven forbid! I laughed. The mental images his description evoked were entertaining, but I was soon somber again. I don’t know how I will cope with being away from home, knowing I can never return.

Erik laid his arms on my shoulders in what might have been a brotherly hug, and he rested his forehead against mine for a moment before placing a light kiss on my brow. You can always come back, Nessa. This is your home. Run away from him and come back when I take the throne. I will make this useless little prince wish he had never heard of Donnegan. He straightened up and added, After a week of being married to you, he may yet wish that.

I intend to make his life as miserable as I can, I said, meaning it literally.

If anyone can accomplish that, it is you, Erik agreed. You have made my life hell for every day of your twenty-three years.

I am going to miss you more than you can imagine, I sighed. In Greyston I won’t have anyone to talk to or to make me laugh. I’m leaving my home and my best friend behind, and for what reason? To marry some strange, pathetic excuse for a prince who cannot find a wife for himself among his own people.

You called me your best friend.

Their country will not be as friendly or as beautiful as Donnegan. Their people will not welcome me. I am a foreigner who will someday be their queen. That is more than enough to make them resent me.

You called me your best friend, Erik repeated in a voice filled with wonder.

I smiled lovingly at him and my tone softened. You have always been that. It was a warm moment between siblings. One which he wasted no time in spoiling.

Actually Nessa, my best friend is Samuel, he corrected me. I only pretend to like you so Father will not disinherit me. Samuel Strauss was Erik’s closest friend, and a flagrant womanizer. His reputation for romancing married women was widely known and frowned upon.

You are heartless, Frederik, I hissed, using the name he detested and acting as if I were wounded by his facetious banter.

Erik’s expression sobered. Samuel is infatuated with you, did you know that? I would cut his heart out if he so much as looked at you. His eyes probed mine to see if this tidbit of information held any significance for me.

Ugh! I scoffed in disgust. I like your idea of cutting his heart out. If he can still walk afterwards, I may let him court me.

Agreed, Erik smiled, satisfied with my response. As much as I like Samuel, I am afraid he will come to a bad end one day. He takes risks no rational man would take, and I fear his craving for meaningless liaisons will be his undoing.

Having ascertained that I had no interest in the errant Samuel, Erik dismissed the topic and put his arm around my shoulder. I truly will miss you, Nessa, he said softly. I turned to him and threw both arms around his neck. He rested his chin on my shoulder and gave me a light squeeze of encouragement. I was on the verge of tears but held them back for his sake, not wanting to cast my sorrow on him. Despite his teasing, we were very close, and this parting was difficult for us both. Joking was our way of handling the pain.

Erik, must you always hang on our women? Father tried to sound stern but his tone held warmhearted amusement. Erik and I had been engrossed in our conversation and we had not heard Father’s approach.

Only the pretty ones, Father, Erik replied smoothly. But since Nessa is my sister, I felt I should make this one exception.

Father rolled his eyes in feigned exasperation and asked me, Do you still wonder why I cannot get anyone to marry him?

We spent the next fourteen days making memories to last a lifetime. There was little chance I would see my country, my family, or my friends again. The days flew by with cruel haste. It was too soon for me to have accepted that this marriage was going to take place whether or not I wanted it, but the schedule had been made just as the marriage had been arranged—without my knowledge, opinion, or consent.

Dinners were held in my honor, hosted by my friends who wanted to know all about my future husband. These dear young countesses and duchesses were my closest female confidantes. In this matter, though, there would be no sharing of secrets. Because I knew so little about my betrothed, we wove our own tales of a gallant, handsome prince who would steal my heart with his brave deeds and charming manner. I concealed my apprehension with laughter, pushing aside any thoughts of what might really lay in store for me in Greyston. I preferred to leave them with fond recollections of our times together. In their eyes, I was the most fortunate of us all, having found a prince who was heir to his father’s throne. I would someday be a queen; so much the better that I would have influence with the ruler of our aggressive neighboring country.

Our goodbyes were poignant, tearful, and drawn out as long as we could make them last. Each of us were aware this would be the last time we would see each other, in all probability. Only by one of two ways would we meet again: if my husband should die before he took the throne, or if one of them wed a nobleman of Greyston. Neither situation seemed likely.

During the course of these dinners, and somewhere amid the tears and the merriment, I came to understand my purpose. My people looked to me to secure a bond with Greyston and to ensure permanent peace between our two countries. The joining of our families removed any threat of hostility. No matter how I felt about it, this was my duty and responsibility. I did not have to like it; my part was to do what I was born to do.

On the eve of my departure, I spent a quiet evening with Erik and Father. All other farewells were done; this was a time for the three of us. We lingered over our dinner, though none of us ate much, and we reminisced about my childhood, with Father recounting stories of a precocious little girl with a zeal for knowledge and a thirst for adventure. As he spoke I found myself missing Mother terribly, but there was comfort in the knowledge that she would have been proud of me.

When we could delay our need for sleep no longer we bade each other good night, and I mounted the stairs to my room. Walking slowly, relishing the feel of the smooth marble banister under my hand, trying to imprint every fine detail of home in my mind…

But this is no longer my home.

My bags were packed and sitting in the corner. The sight of them, and the feelings of isolation and loss they invoked, brought the tears I’d withheld all evening to the surface. I was about to begin my greatest adventure, but my heart felt as heavy as a millstone.

Greyston. Why in God’s name do I have to go to Greyston? Why do I have to marry some strange foreign prince, unknown to any of us? Surely there is another option. Surely there is time to stop this.

True, I had accepted my responsibility as the only rational choice, but in this emotionally trying time of sadness and uncertainty, my attitude vacillated between quiet resignation and bitter anxiety. With my thoughts in turmoil, I spent my last night in Donnegan.

It was late summer when Father and I left Somerset, and we expected to arrive in Greyston’s royal city of Laibach in two to three weeks. We rode in the royal coach-and-four, escorted by a turnout of twenty-five guards, drivers, and attendants. Such an ostentatious vehicle made me ill at ease, though it was far less brazenly ornate than coaches used in large empires. I was not one for pomposity, but the nature of this journey demanded we be duly recognizable by all, so that every horseman, cart, carriage or coach on the roads would make way for us.

A smaller, plainer coach followed behind mine, carrying my belongings and two attendants. The belongings would remain in Greyston, the attendants would return to Donnegan after my wedding. King Willem assured Father he had more than enough staff, and he personally chose his best housemaids to attend me. I wondered, absentmindedly, if I had the option to reject them if they proved to be unsatisfactory, or if Willem’s decision was final.

Maybe Willem set his house-spies to keep watch on me.

The thought brought a small smile to my lips. Father smiled broadly in return, confident of his persuasive powers, satisfied I was warming to the idea of living in Greyston and marrying Prince Ian. He did not know how I resented both Ian and Willem, so much so that I had to be careful not to continue to address the King as I thought of him—by first name. To do so showed more than the lack of respect. It showed contempt.

Greyston’s northern region was stark, mountainous and forbidding. The small portion of shared border contained a narrow valley, sparsely populated, and was relatively easy to travel. Beyond the valley, though, the land rose sharply. It was best negotiated on horseback, but our coaches were forced to climb the steep, rocky paths with great difficulty. Some of the highest mountains in the distance formed a barrier of sorts between my future husband and me.

Are they a forewarning of things to come?

The roads led us through barren and treacherous areas. Robbers and murderers roamed the rocky wastelands, hiding in caves in hopes of finding hapless travelers who were unescorted, unarmed, and unprepared. The presence of our guards afforded us adequate protection from would-be assailants. Our men were well-armed, well-trained, and highly vigilant. However, travel by day was risky enough; travel after dark was unthinkable. By sunset every evening, we found safe lodgings in one of the few, remote mountain villages.

Each morning I dawdled as much as I dared—fussing with my attire or my hair, asking for breakfasts I did not want, insisting I needed something from the local shops and sending my attendants on absurd errands. My transparent ploy of slowing our passage went unchallenged. There was no possibility that Father would change his mind, but neither of us wanted to argue the matter any more. He indulged my small acts of rebellion, and I pretended my deception was clever enough to go undetected.

At last—though it seemed much too soon—we cleared the northernmost region of Greyston and left the last glimpse of Donnegan behind. Here, the mountains were higher and steeper, hostile and extremely difficult to traverse. Any attempts on my part to impede our progress were unnecessary. Our trip was prolonged significantly as we struggled up low hills and skirted mountains so high that their peaks were hidden in the clouds. After another eleven days of slow, bone-jarring travel, in places where nightly accommodations were nonexistent and we were forced to camp in the most spacious caves we could find, we reached the province of Upper Greyston. From here, the land became more habitable.

We arrived at a plateau, which provided a much-needed respite for our horses. Beyond the plateau were more mountains that appeared to reach all the way to the horizon, though not as sharply steep as those we’d already crossed. Thick forests covered the land, still lush and green, as if in denial of autumn’s advent. Rivers that looked like carelessly discarded, glittering ribbons, wound their way languidly through the valleys. Empty ravines, unsatisfied by the sparse summer rains, awaited the next spring thaw to quench their parched, open throats. With this Eden-like view before us, we made camp for the night. Tomorrow we would begin our descent to the royal city of Laibach.

As we traveled southward, the mountains gave way to gently rolling hills, and finally, to broad, flat plains. Small villages dotted the land like casually tossed pebbles. Farmland lined the main road from just south of the mountains to central Greyston, where hills rose once more, and our progress was again slowed. By mid-afternoon, it was apparent we would not reach Laibach before dusk.

In a small town just off the main highway, we found lodging for the night. Our drivers asked the townsmen how far we were from Laibach. We were close to the city, they told him, but they urged us to stay in town overnight. If we set out again at dawn, we would reach the royal city in no more than two hours. Father agreed, and a runner from the town was sent to King Willem with word of our arrival. One last night was added to my freedom, and I cherished every hour of it.

We resumed our journey at first light. Father appeared excited at the prospect of meeting King Willem face to face. I did not share his pleasure, but I said nothing. The least I could do was to let him enjoy the rare occurrence of meeting a fellow monarch. If I was unhappy, that unhappiness was mine alone. It would have been supremely selfish of me to balk now, so close to our destination. Selfish, and utterly futile.

As we had been told by the townsfolk, we entered the province of Laibach, the central province of the country, before mid-morning. Father’s enthusiasm grew, while my stomach tightened in apprehension with each turn of the wheel that brought us closer to the castle.

The city of Laibach lay in a valley surrounded by low mountains. The imposing castle was built atop the flat summit of a hill overlooking the city, facing southward. I confess it was a glorious sight, bathed in early morning sunlight, its pale stones and broad towers keeping watch over the city. It was there that my betrothed lived: Ian, first son of King Willem, descendant of the people of the north, and Crown Prince of Greyston. This was my new home, and the place my soul abhorred.

A small company of soldiers met us at the city gates and led us through the narrow roads to the hill upon which the castle stood. Our coach climbed the steep, wooded hill, and at length we reached the castle courtyard.

The castle was far beyond imposing. It was intimidating. There must have been five or more floors—an impressive feat to achieve in stone. Our castle in Somerset was huge, but it sprawled out over the land horizontally. The Laibach castle rose vertically, like a massive tower with smaller offshoots on the four corners. To support the many levels, the lower portion of the castle had been constructed into the rise of the hill rather than atop it. The first two levels were staggered out from the main body of the structure, its sandstone walls embracing the hill and appearing to have sprung from the ground like enormous, rough-hewn plants.

The courtyard was blanketed in a layer of luxuriant green grass, thick and closely trimmed. The right side of the courtyard was dominated by an immaculate oval flower garden proudly displaying its brightly colored blossoms, and in its center, a life-size statue of a woman seated on a bench reading a book. Heavily armored and armed guards stood at their posts all around the courtyard. Several were positioned before the tall doors of the castle. Two more flanked the garden, protecting it as though it contained the King’s crown and scepter.

The chief steward met us at the door, and we were shown to our quarters to freshen up and rest for a spell before we were to be taken to meet King Willem and his deplorable son. Father and I were lodged in the west wing, on the fourth level of the six-story castle. From the inside, the castle seemed no less immense, with high ceilings, ornately carved cedar beams and stone pillars, polished marble floors, several curved staircases leading to the different levels and wings of the castle, and low terraces with well-tended flower gardens and shrubs. It was a lovely place, had I been in a mood to enjoy its splendor. If it lacked anything, it lacked light. The windows were small and spaced too far apart. The overall effect was a dark, dismal fortress, beautifully decorated but designed by one who sought protection against an invading enemy.

I sat at the dressing table in my room loosing my hair, and I realized how much of a toll on me the journey had taken. Exhaustion gripped me with weighted hands. How many days had it taken us to reach Laibach? Eighteen? Eighteen long days of jostling, nerve-rattling travel?

My mind was a whirl of conflicting thoughts. The country was picturesque, yet I was utterly miserable. The castle and its gardens were lovely, though I could take no pleasure in them in my agitated state. The guards and servants were kind and obliging, but I could not shake the impression of something sinister beneath the façade of welcome.

This is nonsense, I chided myself. Letting my imagination run wild simply would not do. I needed to rest, to regain my composure, to present myself as the Princess of Donnegan and not as a spoiled, immature child. The long, arduous crossing was completed; my life in Donnegan was over. I was beginning a new life, like it or dislike it as I may. One unalterable fact remained: Greyston was my home now.

I stripped off my heavy travel clothing and lay down for a brief nap. It wasn’t long before sleep overwhelmed me, numbing my aching limbs and dulling my troubled thoughts for a few hours, into the middle of the afternoon. The combination of exhaustion, the downy comfort of the bed, and the unusual coolness of the room lulled me into a deeper sleep than I expected.

It isn’t cool. The castle is as cold as its inhabitants. Just as cold, and just as heartless. This is a house without a soul.

I woke from the dream startled, recoiling from the retreating impression of colorless stone walls and from a hollow feminine voice that spoke fearsome things to my subconscious mind. There was no recollection of what the voice told me, but only that her words were bitter and stern, warning of… Of what? I couldn’t remember.

It was a dream. Only a silly dream, I reminded myself. Dreams have no significance. They are only shadow and vapor.

Shadow and vapor with malicious intent.

I scoffed aloud at the thought, and straightaway there came a soft knocking on my door. I almost laughed again, partly in surprise and partly in embarrassment. What kind of impression would I make, laughing aloud in an empty room like an insane woman cackling at the jesting of her imaginary callers? That thought threatened to produce another giggle, but I stifled it while I stilled my mind and struggled into my dress.

A terrified-looking young girl cowered outside my door. I smiled cordially at her, and she bobbed a quick and much-practiced curtsy, smartly spreading the folds of her skirts with both hands as she crossed one foot behind the other.

She’s just a child, and they’ve sent her to the room of a mad woman. No wonder she’s terrified. My smile broadened, and I cut off another rambling thought before I started to guffaw in earnest.

Yes? I asked gently. I didn’t want to frighten her further with a gruffly spoken what-do-you-want query.

Or by bursting into laughter for no apparent reason.

Stop that!

M’lady, she squeaked in a high-pitched, tiny voice, the King commands your presence at dinner in one hour. Another curtsy followed, as perfectly executed as the first.

My smile froze while I thought up various rude responses to Willem’s command. A blink or two to clear my head, to gather my composure.

Do not kill the messenger.

Please relay my deepest gratitude to His Majesty, I replied.

M’lady? Brown eyes batted in confusion, widening all the more with fear of punishment for not comprehending my message.

Will you come and fetch me? I don’t know my way around the palace, I said, keeping a soft tone and pretending not to notice her fluster.

Oh yes, M’lady, she cheeped happily.

Thank you. I gave her a small nod of dismissal and closed the heavy wood door.

Commands my presence, does he? I muttered, resting my back against the door. It was strong, solid, constructed to be impenetrable.

A slow smile halted the scowl that threatened to overtake my countenance as well as my mood. Impenetrable. I liked that word.

That night I saw Ian for the first time, though we were not formally introduced. I had already resolved to detest him, and while I wore my finest gown for the occasion, I bore my coldest demeanor as my crowning accessory. This stranger, this man of Greyston, would possess me—in that I had no choice—but he would not tame me. I would bear his children, but my heart was mine to give or withhold, and he would never have it. Of that one thing I was resolute.

Impenetrable.

Father and I were led into the Great Hall where King Willem waited to welcome us. A long table was set with a feast to honor our arrival and to celebrate the engagement of the first son of Greyston. While Father and I were being introduced to King Willem by the King’s chief steward, I saw from the corner of my eye two younger men who entered at the far end of the room from another wing of the castle. They stopped short at the doorway and gaped at us in surprise.

Were they uninformed of our arrival? How unusual, and what poor manners these Greyston people have. I gave them a brief, icy, appraising glance, wondering if Prince Ian felt as uncomfortable as I did and, maliciously, hoping he felt worse.

They put on their polite faces, and it was quickly obvious which was to be my husband. His manner was haughty and self-confident as he came to claim his ill-won reward. I felt his eyes on me but I did not meet his gaze. If I had, he might have felt encouraged to speak to me.

Father recognized Prince Ian and greeted him genially, and they engaged in a short conversation. I paid them no heed. What they spoke of or how it came about that they had met was lost on me. My focus was on remaining detached and unapproachable.

King Willem wore a pleasant look, but his smile didn’t touch eyes. They were cold, tiny and piercing as a bird’s eyes. His hair was gray, dry and brittle, and his face was creased as that of a much older man. If his sons were to become like their father in their later years, this would be a most unpleasant marriage. There was callousness in his voice, barely concealed by the silky tones of welcome and benevolence, and perhaps made more obvious by his peculiar accent.

The other young man, I supposed, was Ian’s brother David. He was the Captain of the Armies of Greyston, second in command and second in line for the throne. Of the three men, he irritated me least, which is not to say his presence did not annoy me at all. Was it merely