Just Ella (9 page)

Jed jerked back his hand, and I instantly felt ashamed, as though I'd done something improper.

“Princess,” he said, with unusual emphasis. He never called me “Princess.” “Nobody can stop those rumors. People would rather believe in fairy godmothers and . . . and . . . well, divine intervention, if you will—than to think that you took charge of your own destiny.”

Later, after Jed had left, I lay down on my bed, stared up at the arc of canopy over my head, and thought about what he'd said. Had I taken charge of my own destiny? Sure, I'd found a way to go to the ball against Lucille's wishes. But the rest—the prince dancing with me, the prince bringing my shoe and seeking my hand in marriage—that had been far beyond my control. I'd had no thought of trying to get him to marry me.

I picked at my comforter, though of course, being a royal thing, it had no loose threads or raveled weave to pick at.
Why,
I wondered,
had telling Jed my story left me feeling so let down? Shouldn't I still feel triumphant, victorious?

Hadn't I gotten what I wanted?

At dinner that night, the king announced a tournament to be held on the castle grounds. A flurry of excitement followed his words. Cyronna, who was seated on my right, clutched my arm and exclaimed, “Did you hear? Saturday afternoon? Oh, won't it be glorious?”

For once, I didn't find her enthusiasm cloying. Yes, it would be glorious. A tournament would have to be held outside. And obviously the entire royal court would be invited, or else the king wouldn't have announced it to one and all. So . . . fresh air! Sunshine! I cared naught about which horse won which race, which man won which wrestling bout. But the promise of getting out from under the castle roof for a few hours—that could keep my spirits up for days.

I all but sleepwalked through the rest of the week. Even my sessions with Jed, once the highlight of my days (but only because my time with the prince had to be chaperoned, making us awkward, I always reminded myself)—even that time seemed flat and dull compared with the
prospect of going outdoors. Or maybe it was because Jed seemed different now, unusually distant and distracted.

“Is something wrong?” I finally asked him on Friday.

“No, no,” he mumbled. “Just thinking about . . . uh . . . the war refugees.”

He looked so hangdog, I tried to cheer him up by teasing, “Come on! It's springtime! Can you not take a vacation from worrying about the refugees? Or, how's this: Why not enter the tournament, and if you win something, maybe the king will be so impressed he'll give you whatever you want?”

Jed looked away, obviously not amused.

“I'm not good at that type of thing,” he muttered.

My time with Jed was so unsatisfying, I tried to find the servant girl Mary later that day, hoping at least she would be willing to joke around with me. She always was. But when she scurried into my room upon my summons, she too looked distracted.

“I'm sorry, Princess,” she burst out after a few seconds. “Can't we talk some other time? Mum has me polishing every trophy in the castle, so they can be displayed at the tournament, and do you know how many thousands of trophies they have just lying around this place?”

I was so lonely I almost said, “Can't you just bring them in here, and we can talk while you work?” But I could picture the horror on Madame Bisset's face if she came in the room while that was going on. She would be perfectly capable of dismissing Mary on the spot, and I knew from things Mary had said without meaning to, that her family couldn't
survive without her income, small as it was.

Anyhow, I would feel strange, sitting idle while my friend worked beside me.

I resigned myself to feeling miserable the rest of the day. I wouldn't even get to see the prince, since he was entertaining a foreign delegation that had come to see the tournament.

But at least I had the tournament to look forward to.

Saturday dawned bright and fair. I could tell, even through the castle's tiny windows, that it was the kind of June day you spend winters dreaming about—warm and balmy, with gentle breezes carrying the first scent of summer flowers.

At eight o'clock, my maid showed up to dress me. Someone had decreed that I should wear some new-fangled fashion—or torture device, as I saw it—and the maid laced me tightly into what felt like a box on my torso. I'd worn corsets before, of course, but never like this steel-and-wood contraption. When she finished, I could barely breathe.

“Couldn't you . . . loosen . . . it . . . a little?” I managed to gasp.

The maid, one of the most hoity-toity I'd encountered, gave me a look of withering scorn.

“But, Princess. You used to be so slender.”

I looked down to where my bosom was threatening to burst over the top of my too-tight dress. I had filled out
some in the past weeks of sitting around doing nothing more strenuous than needlepoint, and eating food that was healthy and plentiful, even if it wasn't exactly to my taste. I'd thought it was good not to look so under-nourished anymore.

“Just take this thing off me, okay?” I asked.

The maid's face set in an expression of downright defiance.

“I can't. Queen's orders.”

“I can't believe the queen cares that much what I wear,” I protested.

“She might not. But the prince does. He asked his mother to have you wear something that shows you off.” Her voice was particularly mocking on the last three words. “And this is the latest fashion, just in. As the prince's betrothed, you should wear it first.”

I felt light-headed. The prince and the queen weren't around to debate with, and in that dress, I could hardly dash out of the room demanding to see them. Should I fight with the maid? I couldn't take the dress off by myself. I decided to make the best of it. I took a shaky half breath that barely brought air into my lungs, and favored the maid with what I hoped was a dignified smile.

But I could hear Jed's words echoing in my head: “You took charge of your own destiny.” What a joke. I couldn't even take charge of my own clothes.

It was a full hour before they summoned me. The ladies-in-waiting came down the hall, in dresses every bit as ridiculous as mine.

“Princess!” Simprianna purred. “Thank you—” She had to stop to take a shallow breath. “Thank you for bringing this wonderful fashion to our kingdom. These new corsets do”—another breath—“wonders for our figures.”

She spun around and it was true, her waist looked no wider than a gold coin. It was amazing if you liked that kind of thing.

“I had nothing to do with it,” I snapped. “And I have every intention of ending the fashion as soon as I can.”

Madame Bisset appeared just in time to give me a reproving look.

“Princess! Ladies! We shan't keep the court waiting!”

She led us down the grand staircase, through the vast ballroom and out onto the castle lawns. The fresh air felt like a blessing against my face, and my sour mood began to ebb a bit.

In front of us, dozens of riders were lined up before the reviewing stand. They kept their hands down and their heads bowed, and even the horses stood perfectly still. They looked like a tableau or a tapestry, their lines and colors already preserved forever. But you could tell they all longed for movement and action; horses and riders alike wanted the formalities over so they could do what they loved.

The crier called out, “Princess Cynthiana Eleanora, Prince Charming's betrothed, and her royal attendants.”

I heard polite applause from the stands. I wasn't sure if the court had so little enthusiasm for me or if they were just too well-bred to show more.

Madame Bisset led us to a section of the stands covered by a striped tent. I sat quickly in a padded chair in the middle, and the others followed my example. The chair was too low to afford me a good view of the tournament grounds, and I was just about to ask for a replacement when I saw Madame Bisset motioning to a servant, who promptly lowered the open side of the tent. Now we were surrounded on four sides by cloth walls. We could see nothing outside the tent except a half inch of sunlight at the bottom.

“What? What'd you do that for?” I squawked in surprise. “Now I can't see.”

Simprianna turned to me in astonishment. “You thought they would make us watch the tournament?” She gave a shiver of revulsion. “Horses racing? Men fighting each other? Possibly even”—her face turned pale and she could barely whisper—“bleeding?”

I leaped from my chair, proud that I could leap in that insane dress. As it was, I had a second of fearing I would black out. I steadied myself and demanded, “Open that curtain this instant!”

The servant looked from me to Madame Bisset. She waved him away as though I had not spoken.

“Begone, James. Your services are no longer needed here.”

When he had ducked out under the tent, she whipped her gaze toward me.

“You are a fool,” she all but snarled. “You do not know our customs, and yet you try to change them.”

I couldn't believe my ears.

“You mean, you go to the tournament and don't watch it? Why? Why not just stay locked in the castle, doing needlepoint forever?” Just then I noticed that several of the women had, indeed, pulled out embroidery. I laughed, almost hysterically. “Oh, I get it, it's a change of pace to do needlepoint in a cloth prison instead of a stone one—”

“Silence!” Madame Bisset hissed. “You are a disgrace to your gender. Do you not understand? You are here to beautify the tournament. And yet, if you were visible throughout, you would distract the riders and wrestlers. We will open the tent at the end, and you will present the ribbons.”

I gasped.

“So we aren't allowed to see, because we might be seen.”

“Correct.”

I truly lost control then.

“The queen is out there watching. Are you saying she's too ugly to distract anyone?”

Madame Bisset glared.

“She is not a virgin,” she whispered. Even in such a low tone, her voice still carried her full fury at being made to mention such a matter. “It is that combination of virginity and beauty that men must be protected from.”

I couldn't stand to look at Madame Bisset another second. I appealed to the others.

“Why do you put up with this?” I asked. “Doesn't she make you want to scream?”

Every single one of them gazed at me blankly.

“Don't you ever want to do something—something real? Don't you ever get sick of being ladies-in-waiting? Have any of you ever wondered what you're waiting for?”

“That is what women do. We wait,” Simprianna said primly. “Men go out and have adventures, and we wait for their return. They like to know that we are safe at home, waiting. And in this case, we also wait on you, dear Princess.”

Her speech finished, Simprianna looked around to make sure her answer was correct.

I didn't wait to gauge anyone else's reaction. Thoroughly disgusted, I reached for the tent wall. I don't know if I intended to leave, or simply to pull back the cloth so I could see. But I was suffocating in the closed tent. I didn't think I could stand another second of it.

Just as I started to move the cloth, I felt a firm hand on my wrist. Madame Bisset stopped me with an unexpectedly strong grasp. She locked my arms together and whispered in my ear. “You open that tent, and you will never marry the prince. Never. You will be cast from the castle like so much refuse.”

I did what was expected of me then. I fainted.

“You suffered too much sun at the tournament, Princess?” Mary asked me when she crept into my room that night.

I had been confined to my bed ever since the faint. And I do mean confined. Madame Bisset stayed in my chambers the whole time. She told everyone, “I must assure my precious charge doesn't exert herself unnecessarily.” I believe she actually intended to berate me more as soon as I woke. So I feigned sleep until finally I heard her slip out the door at half past seven, murmuring, in the fakest voice I'd ever heard, “The poor dear is so exhausted after all the excitement. . . .”

Mary must have been spying on my room, because she slipped in as soon as Madame Bisset left.

“Of course I didn't suffer too much sun,” I told Mary crankily. “What's too much sun? I barely saw a single ray of sunshine. It was that stupid dress. I couldn't breathe. Why would anyone wear that torture device?”

Mary patted my hand.

“But you looked so beautiful in it, Your Highness. I saw you across the field. . . .”

I snorted. “Oh, beauty. What's that good for?”

Mary stared, her eyes round.

“It won you the prince, did it not?”

I snorted again. I seemed to be trying to do everything I could to annoy Madame Bisset, even though she wasn't there.

“I prefer to think he was captivated by my charming personality.” I giggled to let Mary know I was trying to make fun of myself. But Mary only looked away.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing, Princess.” Mary patted my hand again. “I should leave and let you rest.”

“But I've been resting all day. I'm full of rest. I'm sick of it.” I shoved back the covers and sprang from the bed. I hopped up and down on the cold floor. “I want to
do
something. Jump. Dance. Run. Live.”

Mary hid a yawn, and I realized who truly did need the rest. She had probably been up at dawn and had worked constantly ever since. I remembered days like that, when all I wanted to do by nightfall was drop in a heap and not move until morning. She had probably had to drag herself in to see me. She was a true friend.

I sat down on the bed.

“Mary, are you tired?”

“A—” She yawned again, so hugely I heard her jaw crack. “A little.”

“Then you should go to bed. Really. I'll be fine.”