A Choice of Crowns. Barb Hendee
petite and fragile. My hair was long and thick, but it was a shade of burnished red, and again, red hair was not currently in fashion.
Still, I’d been raised to remain sharply aware of everything going on around me, and it was no secret that most men found me desirable. My face had often been called pretty, with clear skin and slanted eyes of green.
I looked best in green velvet.
Though I was not vain, I had also been raised to understand that survival was based on value, and at some point, I’d be given a chance to prove myself valuable.
Had that chance finally come?
“You’ll need to pack tonight,” he said. “You leave for Partheney in the morning.”
In spite of my careful awareness of self-control, I nearly gasped. “Partheney?”
This was the king’s city. My family’s lands were in the southeast corner of the kingdom. Partheney was in the northwest, near the coast of the sea. I had never been there.
“You’re to marry King Rowan,” my father said flatly. “His mother, the dowager queen, and I have arranged it.”
I stood still as his words began to sink in, but I still couldn’t quite follow what he was trying to convey. “King Rowan…the dowager queen…is this why you’ve been receiving so many messages?”
His eyes flashed, and I dropped my gaze, cursing myself.
Father did not brook questions from his children. He expected only two things from us: strength and obedience. But the slight shaking in my hands grew to a tremble. Had I heard him correctly? I was to marry the king?
Stepping around the desk, he approached me. “Do you know anything of the rumors surrounding King Rowan?”
Unfortunately, I did, hence the reason my hands trembled. Even here, in the isolated southeast, rumors still reached us. In his late twenties, Rowan de Blaise was a young king and had held the throne for only two years.
But over those two years, four betrothals with foreign princesses had been arranged via proxy. Envoys had been sent to Partheney to finalize negotiations. In all four cases, when the envoys arrived, Rowan refused to even see them. He’d sent them away.
“I know some of the stories,” I answered my father. “I know betrothals have been arranged, and he’s sent the envoys packing.”
“Yes.” My father nodded. “His mother, the dowager, was the one who arranged the betrothals. She is anxious to see him married and founding a line of heirs.”
“Why will he not marry?”
My father waved one hand in the air. “That is of no matter. What matters is, the dowager has decided to stop seeking a foreign princess and marry him into one of our own noble families. She’s wise and has chosen the line of Géroux. We’ll be linked to royalty, and I’ll be the grandfather of kings.”
The truth of all this hit me, and my hands ceased trembling.
I would be queen.
Clearly there were obstacles, but I allowed my initial worries to vanish and let my mind flow. Father expected complete success from himself and would expect nothing less of me. This thought made me brave.
“If Rowan has refused to even see the envoys,” I began, “what makes you and the dowager think he will agree to entertain negotiations this time?”
My question was bold, but instead of growing angry, Father only looked at me as if I were simple—which I was not.
“Because as I said, you will leave in the morning,” he answered. “I’m not sending envoys. I have no faith in envoys. I’m sending you. You’ll go to the castle, meet the king, and handle negotiations yourself. You are a daughter of the Géroux. He cannot turn you away.”
“You’ll not come with me?”
“No. That was my first instinct, but the dowager believes it best if the king is given no choice in facing you directly. It will force him to be…polite.” His expression darkened. “And you will not fail to secure him. Do you understand? You will not fail.”
I met his eyes without flinching.
“I understand.”
* * * *
Dinner that night was both strained and exciting. We sat in elegant clothes around a long table while our servants poured wine.
I allowed Father to deliver the news to my siblings—after the first course had been served. Silence followed for a long moment.
Inwardly, I triumphed at my sisters’ mouths falling open.
“Olivia?” Margareta asked. “To marry King Rowan?”
She herself was married to a minor baron who’d not only forgone a dowry but also paid a fortune for the privilege of the marriage—in land. My father had long wanted a forty-square-league territory at the bottom of our own lands that boasted fine vineyards. Margareta was a shrewish woman who didn’t care for her husband, but she’d married him all the same, as Father had ordered it. Unfortunately, her husband soon grew tired of her and began bringing his mistresses to live at the family manor.
Margareta now spent much of her time here, citing that Father “needed her.” He did not need her, but he didn’t mind her presence so long she played the dutiful wife and gave the baron no reason to demand his land back.
Raising a goblet to his mouth, Father offered her a measured stare. “Why not Olivia?”
“Because…because…” interrupted my other sister, Eleanor, “she is so young.”
Eighteen was hardly considered young for noblewomen. I’d had female cousins married off as early as sixteen.
But—I shamefully admit—with some glee, I knew this news would come as a particular blow to Eleanor. At the age of twenty, she was engaged to marry a silver merchant. Father had arranged it. The man had no title, but his family was obscenely wealthy. Over the past months, Eleanor had been boasting to Margareta and me about the upcoming luxuries she would enjoy for the rest of her life.
As she stared daggers at me across the table, I could see the quiet fury in her face, and her thoughts were so open.
Why her and not me?
Both my sisters had inherited our father’s dark hair and our mother’s small size. They were considered fashionable and beautiful. I had inherited our mother’s coloring and our father’s height.
My brother George—the eldest—had also inherited our father’s coloring. He swallowed a bite of roast beef. “Do you think Olivia can manage this?” George would inherit our lands and my father’s title. He was calm and calculating, all mental gears and wheels and little heart. “I’ve met Rowan twice, and he struck me as rather intractable.”
Father nodded. “She’ll manage.”
This turn in the conversation caused both my sisters’ faces to light up.
“I’ve heard King Rowan prefers men,” Margareta said, not bothering to hide her spite. “That may prove challenging.”
I shrugged, speaking for the first time. “He’ll still need to marry. The people expect it. The nobles expect it.”
Her brown eyes flashed hatred at my cavalier reaction.
Eleanor leaned forward. “I’ve heard he’s so possessive of his throne that he won’t share it with anyone, not even a queen.”
“That’s not true,” George answered without an ounce of passion. “He works well with the Council of Nobles. He’s no tyrant. So long as Olivia makes no mistakes, she’ll secure him. She’ll have the support of the council and the dowager queen. They all want to see him wed. Olivia just needs to act wisely.”
As these words left his mouth, a fraction of my confidence