The royal family leaves the castle, wagons heavy with trunks and food. For the fortnight they are gone, my body aches, but it is my heart which truly dies. I suspect when the prince returns he will be promised to another. Rumors tell me he will marry a princess from Spain. But Da insists the king wants to strengthen relations with Norway, and the future queen will be fair and light eyed.
She won't have my dark hair and blue eyes. She won't have my full breasts and coarse accent, my fine bones and rough hands.
She will be pure.
And I never will be again.
She might not even love him. She might not relish the clean sweat smell of his skin, the weight of his thighs between hers, the soft down of the hair on his legs. She might not crave the scratch of his stubble on her delicate chest.
Why does he claim me night after night? Does he not know the torture of it?
Someday I will marry Liam. Will Liam know I gave my heart to another long before he also stole my innocence? Will Liam search our bed linens for virgin blood? Or does the whole castle know the other role I've taken?
I clear my head of thoughts of the Prince.
Liam and I will have children, I will take over the ale house, Liam will head the bread ovens. It is a good match and, as far as servant life goes, a powerful match.
But it is absurd that today is the first time in my life the thought has occurred to me:
There will come a time when I can no longer love the prince.