The Sword and the Suitor

Blah Blah Blah.

That is all that they will ever do at these stupid court meetings. Since I am the princess apparent, I must attend all of them.

I’d rather de-flea my bedroom. The entire castle, even.

At these endless meetings I usually find ways of distracting myself. It’s not like I am missing anything. I can just ask my Uncle Clotaire, the King, about the important things afterwards.

During this meeting, I had been watching a pair of thrushes building their nest. I wonder what their babies will be like. I wonder if any of them will turn into thrush pie.
At that thought of violence my thoughts turn to swords. Oh, how I would love to learn to fence. Parry, block, swing, swipe, stab, miss, block! Stab. My enemy crumples onto the ground, moaning and groaning, while I stand tall and victorious while the whole nation of France crowds in around me to lift me on their shoulders, to carry me and cheer me on. No snide remarks about the fact that I am not wearing a dress, but a mans tights and doublet. A man runs towards me. I can not see his face, nor do I know who he is, but he is the picture of the man that I shall love! He runs closer, his black hair flying in the wind. He lifts me up, embraces me…
As I was sinking to this fascinating reverie, I was jerkily jolted back to reality.
What was my uncle saying?

“Princess Petronilla, what is your opinion?” The King said.
“Hmm? My opinion on what?” I replied thickly, still thinking about the scene I had just been imagining. My Uncle’s highest advisor, Chancellor Gurlain, a man with a face like an inbred lizard, answered my request.
“Your opinion on the behavior of the serfs.”
What!!! How could he dare talk to me without using one of my titles, Princess Petronilla- which I hate, everyone I know intimately calls me Petra- or the Duchess Chatellerault? Irritation flashed inside of me. I stood up, and spoke loudly so that everyone in the great hall could hear me speak.
“You, Chancellor,” I said in a deep voice, “shall call me either Princess Petronilla or the Duchess Chatellerault. Is that clear to you?” He bowed his balding head in embarrassment.
“Yes, my Lady.”
Grr. He always finds some way to get around my orders.
Always.
“I think that the serfs are acting as they should, thank you. You would fare worse under their burden.” said I. The old mans thin face paled at this. He is an absolute sexist and thinks that my becoming a ruler is quite a joke.
“You are dismissed.” My uncle the king said to the court. They slowly left. I turned to my uncle, and spoke before he could.
“You should really do something with that illegitimate fuss-ball. I suggest killing him.” My uncle laughed.
“Oh Petra. Soon you will learn that you must value those like Gurlain for their usefulness, and let go of their character.” He gave me a look to see if I was listening. I wasn’t. My uncle sighed. “Go, Petra, and get ready for the feast that is being held this night. It is in honor of an Italian noble that is coming to court for a long stay.”
Those words rung dimly in my ears, for that means that he is probably another suitor for me. There is always some foreign noble coming to court to court me. I do not know if it is my uncle or the chancellor who keeps on arranging this, but at this point I don’t really care.
None of the men have been to my liking, not one. I intend to marry whom I will, thank you very much.
I intend to wear my oldest dress and rub soot in my hair - faugh!
I stiffly walked away from the great hall, swinging my great mouse-brown braid as I went, and walked towards my chambers, which were located in the north-east tower.
No sooner had I closed my door that it was thrust open once more. Lady Matilda Plantagenet, or Mattie, burst though, gasping and holding a stitch in her side. She pushed a ringlet of her blonde hair out of her beautiful face. I must tell you this though, before we continue. Mattie is the daughter of a very rich British earl. She has been here at the court of France for a long time, about a year, and plans to stay for about three more. She is a year older than me at twenty-two. She is also very, very pretty, much more pretty than me, with my mouse-brown hair and thin, pale, pointed face. which caused a certain jealousy on my part when she first came. At least I have round cherry lips as she does.
“Oh Petra!” she gasped. “A new Italian noble has come to court!”
“Yes, I know that,” I replied sharply. People seem to believe that because I am a princess I have no idea of what is going on. “I was thinking about wearing my rust-colored dress,” I continued. “What do you think?”
“Oh Petra! You can’t! Not this time!”
“And why ever not?” Why was she questioning my judgment?
“Oh, oh, because he is a powerful baron and an excellent sword master, from what I have heard! He is so young, only in his late twenties, and so handsome! He has long, black hair and wonderful hazel eyes! Oh Petra! We must wear our very best! We must!” Mattie had the most annoying tendency of ending all of her sentences with exclamations. I stood there for a moment, frozen. However scatterbrained Mattie might be, her expertise on the looks of men was not to be questioned. A thought crossed my mind; could he have come to court me?
“Mattie, why is he here?” I asked nonchalantly, but she guessed my meaning.
“I don’t know, but it has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with you. Come on; let’s get ready for the feast.”
We bathed and dressed, she in a blue gown with purple silk flowers sewn onto the skirt, and me in a white dress with silver and gold leaves embroidered on the bodice and the kirtle. I braided my hair with silver, gold, and a white ribbon and Mattie used purple and blue in her own.
Finally we were ready.
We quickly went to the great hall. The Royal Crier announced us, and the giant carved mahogany doors slowly opened. A murmur spread through the crowd. We walked up onto the Royal Dais.
Then I saw him.
Mattie was right. He was handsome, or dashing, as the English would say. His hair was black and long, just brushing his shoulders, but well groomed and combed back. While the men of the French court kept their faces clean-shaven, he had small, attractive stubble. His eyes were hazel gray. His musculature was subdued beneath his clothing, but I could tell that he was a strong man. All of this I sucked in in less than a few seconds. My uncle introduced him to us.
“This is the Baron Leonardo Monticello.” He said. “Please excuse me; I must go greet some guests.” He walked away. The baron turned to Mattie.
“I have already had the pleasure of meeting you, Lady Matilda.” He bowed. Mattie curtsied and walked away, frowning slightly. He turned to me. He paused, as though waiting for me to speak, but I was momentarily captured by his presence
“I am pleased to meet you, Baron Monticello.” I finally managed, and executed a wobbly curtsy. I cursed myself silently. I prided my self on my flawless self-control.
“The pleasure is mine, Duchess.” He said smoothly. His voice had a different intonation than any that I had ever known, but that could be because I had never before met an Italian. Before I could utter another string of empty words he took my hand and gently pressed it to his lips. He raised his hazel eyes and stared into my own blue ones, and my heart quavered. He let my hand slip out of his and bowed. I smiled, then turned hastily and fled to my seat.
I didn’t look at him for the rest of the meal. I couldn’t.