"You will wear burgundy, the color of his house, your future house," Anjolique says. "It will please him."
"It is the Feast of Silence," Margrithe disagrees, moving more gowns from the dressing cabinet. "She must wear the color of her own house."
"Your silver," Dulce says with a dreamy smile as she removes the silver gown, trimmed with dainty pearl beads from the Narrow Sea. "You are such a beautiful wolf, Felicite. When will I get my silver coat, Lady Margrithe?"
"When you are sixteen," Margrithe replies with a smile. "Every Agincourt female changes on her sixteenth birthday."
"And you will be even more beautiful, Sister," Felicite promises as Dulce throws her arms around her in a gleeful embrace.
"Will I marry a king?"
"With any luck," Anjolique says, at the same time that Felicite says:
"I pray you do not."
Gabriel lifts Felicite into the saddle of her chestnut hunter, and she hooks her leg around the pommel. Margrithe adjusts the gown so that it cascades attractively nearly to the ground, and Felicite dons her riding hat and gloves.
"Are you ready?" Gabriel asks as he holds the horse steady.
"No," she says. "But let us go, anyway."
"His Grace, the King!" a herald calls, startling everyone in the courtyard as the young man bustles through the gate, bending at the waist to catch his breath. He must have run hard to stay ahead of Julien just to announce him.
"Why is he here?" Felicite leans down to ask Gabriel. "I am coming to him, as he commanded."
Julien rides into the courtyard mere seconds after the herald, and he casts a sidelong glance at the boy, as if he does not understand the point to announcing his arrival. Perhaps he does not. It is possible that things are done quite differently where Julien is from, the bitter, dark Norselands.
"You are ready," Julien says, looking her up and down from atop his own bay hunter. The horse stamps his foot impatiently and tosses his head. "Good. Let us be on our way."
"I will escort the princess," Gabriel says with a frown. He does not bow or lower his head, only meets Julien's scrutiny with a matching glare of his own. "No need to trouble yourself."
"I will escort my betrothed," Julien replies, staring icily at Gabriel.
"I am certainly safe escorted by the king," Felicite assures him before Gabriel has a chance to earn himself a trip to the scaffold. "Truly, Gabriel."
They ride toward the castle, the king and his future queen, an awkward silence hanging in the air between them. People gather on the streets to gape and gawk, and she focuses her attention on them as they call out to her. The do not dare call out her family name or that of her house, but they do shout for their beloved princess.
"Your gown is lovely," he remarks, but she does not acknowledge his compliment, nor does she thank him.
After more silence, he attempts to speak to her again.
"It is good for the people to see their king and future queen together, don't you agree?"
She nods politely.
"Do you intend to speak to me at all this evening?"
"I do not intend to exchange more words than the basic pleasantries your station requires of me. Your Grace. Forgive me, but pleasant conversation, with the man who waged war upon my kingdom, destroyed the unification of three kingdoms, killed my betrothed and left him to rot on a battlefield, executed my father, reduced my family to poverty, and then, to add insult to his grievous injuries already inflicted upon me, attempted to rape me, will not flow freely from my tongue."
The arrogant smirk falls away.
Felicite turns her head away so he cannot see her expression and grins at her small triumph, and the rest of the journey is spent in blessed silence.
The Feast of Silence is an ancient tradition and must always be observed after a hunt conducted in human form. In their true form, as wolves, they are following their instinct and maintaining their rank in the wild. But hunting as humans requires a ceremony of thanks to the Ancestors for providing the food, and to the prey itself, in gratitude for the sacrifice of the animal.
Each member of the court dresses in a gown or suit of clothing that matches the color of their fur in their true form. Julien is dressed in black, a typical coat color for the Fleming male line. He would be easier to hate if he were not so damned handsome, but his fine features are not enough to win her over. It is a cruel trick that the Ancestors must punish her so; an ugly man with manners and honor would far surpass her current suitor.
When they arrive in the courtyard of the great castle, the stablehands hurry to take their horses. Julien raises his arms to help her down and she hesitates, not wanting him to touch her, but she has no choice. She relents, allowing him to lower her to the ground, which he does with ease, before offering his arm to escort her inside.
She does not look at him as he guides her into the castle. Her surroundings hold too many memories, painful for her now, and she does not wish for him to see the depth of her loss. She has spent much of her youth here at the castle of Ravaenna in the court of Jolis's father, King Geralt. Her betrothal had been celebrated merrily by the people, who saw her as a great peacemaker, for her marriage to Jolis meant the unification of the Three Kingdoms, and an end to the wars that have plagued them for centuries. They had even given her a fond nickname, Princess of Peace, and Jolis had been equally beloved for speaking out against the wars and vowing that his marriage - a happy one - would unite them all as one.
Felicite can see the memories, as vividly as if they are happening before her own eyes. As a young girl rushing up these very stairs, Jolis chasing after her, and how she had squealed with delight when he had caught up to her. Behind the very arch she now passes under with Julien, Jolis had kissed her for the first time. She almost feels the way she felt then, the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She remembers it as though it happened yesterday and not a lifetime ago. She glances about the great hall as Julien leads her, spotting all of the hiding places she had found as a child.
The fond memories give her comfort and the strength to keep walking beside Julien. She casts a cautious glance up at him, but he is staring straight ahead. He looks distressed. As though he does not belong here.
Good.
He does not.
"Are you unwell, Your Grace?" she asks sweetly.
"Fine," he huffs.
Felicite is seated beside Julien in the Great Hall of Ravaenna Castle in a high-backed dark oak chair. She is uncomfortable here in the presence of all of these traitors. The silence only makes matters worse. With no conversation, all one can do is observe others.
Her gazes land on Julien more than once, even though she wills her eyes away from him. She cannot help but be curious about him. He looks uncomfortable before all these people. If he did not want to be king, then why did he kill Jolis?
A large silver platter filled with the roasted meat from the hunt is placed on the table before him, and Julien slices it, taking the best pieces and placing them on her plate. She nods her thanks, even though she wishes to be anywhere but beside him at this feast. The tradition of serving the female the best pieces of meat from the hunt is one she savored with Jolis, but now with Julien, she has lost her appetite.
She wishes to go home.
Not home to the lowly apartments the king has granted Lady Margrithe. Home to the castle her father had commissioned as a gift for her mother upon their betrothal, a place Felicite belonged and was welcomed.
As the meal drags on in utter silence, the familiarity begins to wear on her, no longer a comfort. How many meals has she dined at this very table, beside Jolis? How many times has he carved meat on that very platter, placing the best morsels on her plate with that very fork and knife?
"Are you not hungry, Princess?" Julien whispers, his breath warm against her ear. "You've hardly touched your food."
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I am feeling unwell."
"Shall I send for the physician?"
"No, there is no need to go to such trouble. I am certain I will be fine when I have rested."
He nods and stands, offering his hand. "Come. I will escort you."
Julien calls for their horses and he lifts her into her saddle, adjusting her gown for her. He does not look up at her, and for that she is grateful. She cannot bear to look at him.
"There is to be a tournament tomorrow. I ask that you attend."
"You ask?" she turns her head, raising an eyebrow. "Or you command?"
"I'd prefer to ask, but if I must, I will command you. We are to present the people their monarchs."
She nods. "Then I've no choice."
"Not really, no," Julien says. "Although I do wish you would accept the invitation so I did not have to force your hand."
"And you've trouble forcing me?"
He sighs. "Princess Felicite, if you insist upon fighting me every step of the way, you will make a very poor queen for the people you claim to love."
"And if you insist upon murdering people I love and forcing me to lie with you, then you will continue to make a very poor king."
"Your guardian," Julien says, changing the subject quickly. "What is his name?"
"Gabriel."
"What is his station?"
"He is a knight. In Bruges, the firstborn princess receives a guardian, a personal protector, for her life. He was ten when he took the oath to be my guardian."
"A knight."
"Yes, and a very brave one. He fought beside Jolis in the battle of Beaufort."
"If he is your guardian, why was he fighting in battle?"
"Because you cannot keep a warrior from battle," Felicite says with a fond smile for her guardian. "And because I asked him to."
"Why?"
"Because it hurts him so to stay behind while others go to battle. His is a position of honor, but his duty as a knight calls him to war. It is a cruel punishment which he is too honorable to deserve. I asked him to go with Jolis, to both their protests, but to protect my kingdom means to protect me. So he went, and so he returned to me."
Julien considers this for a moment, then nods decisively. "You will bring him with you to the tournament. He will joust."
"I do not know if he will oblige-"
"I am the king. He will joust."
"Yes, of course," she says. There is nothing more she can say.
"Do you know why he commands this?" Gabriel asks Felicite as they ride toward the tournament grounds.
"Because he can."
"Yes, of course, but you must know he intends to challenge me."
"Why would he do that?" Felicite asks. "What has he to gain from competing against you?"
"To prove that he is our better. To prove that I am unable to protect you as I have sworn to do. So that he can dismiss me from your service."
"Only I can dismiss you," Felicite replies. "Surely even he must keep to our vow?"
Gabriel shakes his head, his shaggy blond hair falling over his soft blue eyes. "He knows no honor."
"Can you defeat him, Gabriel?"
He pauses. "I watched him on the battlefield at Beaufort. He is a warrior, through and through. I do not know. I can only hope that my training does not fail me."
"Oh," she says softly, her voice filled with worry.
"Do not fret," Gabriel assures her. "I will not allow him to shame this family more than he has already. And he is unable to break my oath to you."
When they arrive at the tournament grounds, Felicite is escorted to the Queen's Box, a shaded tent with padded chairs for the queen and her ladies. Her sisters Claude, Dulce, and Cosette have all arrived already and are seated with her Lady Mother and Lady Margrithe. Servants are pouring wine for them and there are trays of sweets and pastry for them to enjoy.
Felicite takes her seat demurely, then allows herself to fall back into the chair, crossing her legs and calling for wine.
More wine. And more still.
Eventually, the herald calls out for attention.
"The next match, His Grace King Julien challenges Sir Gabriel Courtade!"
Felicite sits forward as Gabriel rides past, and she gulps as she realizes that in the coming moments, she may lose her dearest and truest friend. Although Gabriel thinks she does not know, she has heard the rumors, of what they call Julien.
The god of war.
As though he were Ares himself.
"Princess Felicite," Julien's voice interrupts her thoughts as he reins his horse to a halt before her, raising the shield of his helmet.
"Your Grace," she lowers her head and closes her eyes, but she does not stand to curtsy before him.
"Will you grant me the pleasure of your favor?"
She hesitates a moment, then shakes her head. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I cannot."
For a moment, he appears hurt. Not nearly as hurt as Felicite's ribs feel now that her mother has planted an elbow between them quite firmly, but hurt nonetheless.
Claude leaps to her feet. "I will give mine gladly, Your Grace," she says, sweeping a ridiculously deep curtsy.
Julien looks past Claude, where little Dulce sits, kicking her feet against her own chair.
"Princess Dulce," he says with a smile. "May I carry your favor today?"
Dulce's eyes light up with delight.
"Oh, yes, Your Grace," she beams up at him as she removes the ribbon from her wrist and hands it to him.
He grins again, taking the ribbon and placing it inside his breast pocket.
"Thank you," he says to Dulce, and then to Felicite, "one Agincourt princess is as good another."
The flag is waved, and the two men charge toward one another, each filled with hatred and rage. Dirt flies from the feet of the horses, tearing the jousting green to shreds beneath their hooves.
Felicite holds her breath as the lances hit their marks. Gabriel has shattered Julien's shield.
"One point for Sir Gabriel Courtade," the announcer calls out. Felicite cheers loudly enough to earn a reprimand from her mother and a glare from the king.
"Thank the Ancestors," she mutters.
Julien's shield is replaced and they face one another once more. The king is angrier than he was before, and he charges at Gabriel with a vengeance. His lance catches Gabriel under just above his breastplate and sends him to the ground, where he lays very still. Before anyone can stop her, Felicite has climbed over the railing and rushes toward Gabriel's still and lifeless form.
"Gabriel!" she cries. She eases the helmet from his head, smoothing the hair away from his face. "Gabriel, wake up! Please wake up."
But he does not.
Julien appears at her side and kneels beside her. "He lives," he says. He instructs his squire to send for his personal physician and commands the men in the crowd surrounding them to carry Gabriel to the pavilion.
"I do not know when or if he will wake," Julien's physician, Tormund, tells Felicite. "He has suffered a devastating blow, and the fall alone could have killed him."
"But he lives!" Felicite breathes. "He will wake."
Tormund shrugs. "I hope that he does, Princess Felicite."
She ignores the physician as she returns her focus on her guardian. She dips a clean rag into the bowl someone has brought to her and gently places it across Gabriel's feverish brow. She tends to him for hours before she finally steps away for a breath of fresh air.
Julien is crossing the expansive green lawn, and she wishes she could disappear into the very air itself to avoid him. Surely he has come to gloat over his victory.
"Princess Felicite," Julien bows. "How fares Sir Gabriel?"
"Poorly," she replies.
Julien looks down at his boots. "I did not intend any harm. I wished only to test the mettle of the man charged with the protection of my future queen."
"I see."
"I will sit with you until he wakes."
"That is not necessary, Your Grace," she protests, but he follows her into the pavilion anyway. She sits in a chair beside Gabriel, holding his hand, and she can feel the waves of jealous heat radiating outward from Julien's body. But she ignores her intended husband. She cares only for Gabriel in this moment.
Hours pass, and she drifts into sleep. When she awakens, it is to Gabriel's gentle squeeze of her hand.
"Princess," he says weakly.
"Gabriel!" she leaps to her feet. "Oh, thank the Ancestors! You are alive!"
It is then she notices that Julien remains in the chair on Gabriel's other side.
"You have been here the entire time?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
"I have," Julien says. "I wanted to be sure he was well. You are a true knight, Sir Gabriel. It was a pleasure to compete against you."
To her surprise, Gabriel accepts the compliment, but then, not to her surprise, he demands a rematch. Julien wholeheartedly agrees.
"I will send for Tormund. When he feels you are ready, I shall send a litter to carry you home. Princess Felicite, you should return to your apartments and rest."
"I will stay," she says, but Gabriel protests.
"No. You've done enough, Princess Felicite. I must insist you return home and rest."
She frowns. "Are you certain?"
He nods, and Julien escorts her home.
As he is leaving, he pauses. "The nobles are meeting tomorrow to determine the best course of action for our marriage. I shall send word of their decision before supper."
Felicite nods. It is all she can do.
"Sir Gabriel, you are a skilled soldier," Julien says, gesturing for a servant to bring them ale. "How is it you have been reduced to bodyguard of a princess?"
Gabriel bristles. "Her Grace is the most precious jewel you could hope to have in your crown. You simply do not know it yet. Her father did, of course. If you had such a precious jewel in your keeping, would you entrust any mercenary from the gutters to ensure her safety?"
"No, I suppose not."
"King Remy chose me personally and sent me to train with his best commander, the Duke of Standishe."
"But you are more than a bodyguard to the Princess. A blind man can see that."
"If you are insinuating-"
"I mean no offense, Sir Gabriel. I wish only to learn more of the woman who will rule beside me and share my bed for the remainder of my life."
"The princess is...complex."
"Truly? I hadn't realized."
"Your skilled use of sarcasm makes you a superb match for her."
"She does have a biting wit."
At this, Gabriel laughs. "Do not underestimate her. While she presents a jovial attitude and a cheerful disposition at court, remember that is what she was taught. Beneath the surface, she is moody. Her tongue is sharp as a knife and will cut you deeply. And she is quick to temper. A quality of King Remy, I am certain. And she loves a game of cards, and she will beat you. Do not tell her Lady Mother. It was I who taught her. She will take your money as easily as a pickpocket in the market."
"Will she be a good queen?"
"The best in all the world. Because her people will always come first. Strategy and politics follow. The nobles adore her, the elders because they watched her learn to reign at her father's knee, the younger nobles because of her beauty and the bat of her eyelashes, of course, but they all adore her because she will listen to them. They feel heard when they speak to her. And if a ruler is to remain a ruler, her nobles must love her. They must devote their money and their fighting men to her. She knows how to make them do that."
"I do not," Julien admits.
"She will show you, if you allow her. She may be unhappy about the marriage, Your Grace, but she will not allow you to fail her people."
"You've much faith in your princess."
"Haven't you faith in your future queen?"
"I do not know if we will ever be friends, Sir Gabriel, but I do know your counsel will be valued. And I will rest easier knowing you are the one entrusted with her care. I will bid you goodnight. My physician will see you in the morning and determine if you are well enough to return to your duties."
"And the princess? Has she security this night?"
"I have set my brother, Killian, on watch. She is displeased, of course, but she will be safe."
"Thank you," Gabriel nods.
"Goodnight."
"Your Grace?"
"Yes?" Julien turns to him.
"I shall never like you. But I will support you, if my princess is treated well and allowed to reign as queen. And I will support her children as they grow into their titles. My loyalty is without question. But if you break my trust, if you harm her or silence her, then you will have made an enemy of me."
This is a threat of treason, punishable by death, but Julien smiles.
"I should not want that," he says. "Rest, now, Sir Gabriel, for your princess shall have my head on a pike on the castle wall if I do not return you in the best of condition."