3rd March, 1617
Smallest of the countries who could lay claim to the status of vassal to Pomerania, Carantania was not the strongest or the weakest. On paper, it seemed to have little to offer, and much to gain from its alliance with the stronger nation, and for many generations, it had been content to stay that way. Yet it did, on occasion, produce gossip of a particularly stirring kind. Indeed, the gossip circulating thse days was all the more stimulating for the fact that it seemed to echo the events that had taken place a little over twenty years ago in the same country, to the same man. Twenty years ago, he had been the Crown Prince, never married and the last of his line. Now he was the King, a widower, and still the last of his line.
And what was the event that had the nobles of Meringia in a tizzy' A bride-finding ball.
For the second time in two decades, princesses and noble ladies from across the continent had been invited to the royal palace of Riftfell in Carantania, to meet with the King in hopes of winning his favor and being chosen as his Queen. The first one had not been a particularly rousing success; this one, hopes were high for. The Chancellor of Carantania, Franz Schmaeda, had seen to all the details personally, making good use of the notes left by his predecessor on the same subject. He had, however, sent one invitation his predecessor would never have approved of, and was hoping that the King did not take immediate offense when he realized who it was. As it stood, the nobles and their invited guests had already begun to arrive, and the King had yet to make his own appearance.
Franz cleared his throat, hoping to draw his monarch from his thoughts. "Your Majesty, if I may?"
"It is just like before, Franz. All these women, all hoping to be queen," the King mused aloud as he watched the train of carriages arriving at the palace from high above. Just as he was twenty years ago, he was not particularly anxious to choose a bride from among the hopefuls, all of whom seemed only interested in the influence such a position would offer them. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he had wanted to marry for love, and even after twenty years, the sting of that loss had not faded. He and his wife, the late Queen, had not been a good match for each other, but after so many years of marriage, they had at least learned how to tolerate each other before she had died. And now, how did he feel about her loss" Guilty and yet relieved, all at once.
"With respect, Your Majesty, I believe that the last time this was attempted, the guest of honor had no intention of choosing a bride at all," Franz said, attempting to be diplomatic about this. "This time, he was the one who ordered that the ball should occur." He eyed his king in concern, softening his voice. "Not every lady invited is after a crown, Frederick," he said in a gentler tone, a man speaking to his friend, rather than chancellor to king. "Their parents, perhaps, but the ladies themselves may be hoping not to be chosen. Remember that you are not the only person here without much choice in the matter."
"Be that as it may, Franz, let's be honest. What we are really looking for here is a brooding mare, yes?" Frederick pointed out. Though the name given him at birth was George Frederick Raphael, his parents had dubbed him Freddie from a young age, and it had stuck.
"No," Franz shook his head vehemently. "We are looking for a companion, a queen. You've been shouldering this kingdom all alone since your father's death, with no one but me to put up with your rants and insecurities and occasional idiocies. You need a companion, and if that companion happens to come with child-bearing hips, all the better."
"If I cannot produce an heir, Alfred will inherit the throne, and we both know what that means for Carantania," Frederick argued, pushing away from the window to face his friend and most trusted advisor. "I have been a fool, Franz. As a young man, I was full of foolish, romantic notions. My youth was my excuse then, but there is no excuse for what came later," he added. While the ball was supposed to be a happy, exciting occasion, it seemed the man for whom the ball was being thrown was less than enthusiastic.
"Had your father been brave enough to come to an accord with Pomerania sooner, perhaps the young man you were would not have needed to be excused," Franz said thoughtfully. "But this is all water under the bridge. The ballroom will be filling up by now, and I am aware that the princesses are all expecting to be announced as they enter." He glanced toward the door, and sighed. "And I have a small confession to make."
Frederick rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed in impatience and annoyance, though he knew he had no choice but to play along. He had learned how to play his part well over the years and was no longer a foolish youth, though he knew he would never meet anyone who could ever compete with his Genevieve - the only woman he had ever loved, lost to time. Without noble blood of her own, she had not been considered a suitable bride, and had withdrawn from court of her own accord. He had never seen her again, but he had never forgotten her either. "What confession is that?" Frederick asked as he donned his gloves.
"There ....may be a face that looks familiar among the crowd," Franz offered awkwardly. "I'm told the lady greatly favors her mother, who was .....shall we say, known to you before her departure from court?"
Frederick lifted his gaze to the other man, a puzzled look on his face. "I beg your pardon?" he asked. He had heard what the other man had said, but he was not so sure he understood his meaning.
Franz cleared his throat. He knew confessing now was a good idea; far better than allowing his king to get the shock of his life in a room full of eyes watching him. But that didn't make it easy. "The lady in question hails from Kediri," he explained. "Her father, the Comte de Chalagne, passed away before the year turned. She is, however, of suitable rank, and her name appeared on the list of recommended ladies given to us by the King of Kediri." He paused, eying his friend and king warily for a moment. "Her stepmother will be accompanying her. Her mother, sadly, died of childbed fever shortly after the lady's birth. You're going to make me say her name, aren't you." It was not a question; more of a resigned statement of fact.
Frederick narrowed his eyes at his friend, not because he was angry, but only because he was confused. What in the Goddess' name was he going on about, and what made this particular woman more special than any other? "I have no idea what you're talking about, Franz. Please explain."
"The lady's mother, before she was married, was Genevieve von Marchelle." Franz visibly braced himself at this point; that name had not been spoken aloud at the Carantan court for more than twenty years, out of respect for the man standing in front of him.
Though the name might not have been spoken, it had certainly been thought. Countless nights Frederick had laid awake in bed alone wondering what had become of her, and here Franz was telling him her daughter was here and was one of the many hopefuls. The King blanched, grasping hold of a chair to keep himself upright, though he had not yet laid eyes on the girl. "Genny," he whispered quietly, his mind traveling back through twenty years to youthful memories of love and loss. "I should break your nose for that, Franz," he said, coming out of his thoughts.
"I was not aware that her daughter had grown to favor her so much until I overheard one of the servants discussing it yesterday evening," Franz said apologetically. "If I had known, I likely would not have extended the invitation to her. As it stands, I am afraid that your nobility may well spend the evening pestering the young lady for having her mother's face." He raised a brow at the almost absent threat to his nose. "You could certainly try, Your Majesty, but then you would have to explain to all your guests why your Chancellor is bleeding on them."
Smallest of the countries who could lay claim to the status of vassal to Pomerania, Carantania was not the strongest or the weakest. On paper, it seemed to have little to offer, and much to gain from its alliance with the stronger nation, and for many generations, it had been content to stay that way. Yet it did, on occasion, produce gossip of a particularly stirring kind. Indeed, the gossip circulating thse days was all the more stimulating for the fact that it seemed to echo the events that had taken place a little over twenty years ago in the same country, to the same man. Twenty years ago, he had been the Crown Prince, never married and the last of his line. Now he was the King, a widower, and still the last of his line.
And what was the event that had the nobles of Meringia in a tizzy' A bride-finding ball.
For the second time in two decades, princesses and noble ladies from across the continent had been invited to the royal palace of Riftfell in Carantania, to meet with the King in hopes of winning his favor and being chosen as his Queen. The first one had not been a particularly rousing success; this one, hopes were high for. The Chancellor of Carantania, Franz Schmaeda, had seen to all the details personally, making good use of the notes left by his predecessor on the same subject. He had, however, sent one invitation his predecessor would never have approved of, and was hoping that the King did not take immediate offense when he realized who it was. As it stood, the nobles and their invited guests had already begun to arrive, and the King had yet to make his own appearance.
Franz cleared his throat, hoping to draw his monarch from his thoughts. "Your Majesty, if I may?"
"It is just like before, Franz. All these women, all hoping to be queen," the King mused aloud as he watched the train of carriages arriving at the palace from high above. Just as he was twenty years ago, he was not particularly anxious to choose a bride from among the hopefuls, all of whom seemed only interested in the influence such a position would offer them. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he had wanted to marry for love, and even after twenty years, the sting of that loss had not faded. He and his wife, the late Queen, had not been a good match for each other, but after so many years of marriage, they had at least learned how to tolerate each other before she had died. And now, how did he feel about her loss" Guilty and yet relieved, all at once.
"With respect, Your Majesty, I believe that the last time this was attempted, the guest of honor had no intention of choosing a bride at all," Franz said, attempting to be diplomatic about this. "This time, he was the one who ordered that the ball should occur." He eyed his king in concern, softening his voice. "Not every lady invited is after a crown, Frederick," he said in a gentler tone, a man speaking to his friend, rather than chancellor to king. "Their parents, perhaps, but the ladies themselves may be hoping not to be chosen. Remember that you are not the only person here without much choice in the matter."
"Be that as it may, Franz, let's be honest. What we are really looking for here is a brooding mare, yes?" Frederick pointed out. Though the name given him at birth was George Frederick Raphael, his parents had dubbed him Freddie from a young age, and it had stuck.
"No," Franz shook his head vehemently. "We are looking for a companion, a queen. You've been shouldering this kingdom all alone since your father's death, with no one but me to put up with your rants and insecurities and occasional idiocies. You need a companion, and if that companion happens to come with child-bearing hips, all the better."
"If I cannot produce an heir, Alfred will inherit the throne, and we both know what that means for Carantania," Frederick argued, pushing away from the window to face his friend and most trusted advisor. "I have been a fool, Franz. As a young man, I was full of foolish, romantic notions. My youth was my excuse then, but there is no excuse for what came later," he added. While the ball was supposed to be a happy, exciting occasion, it seemed the man for whom the ball was being thrown was less than enthusiastic.
"Had your father been brave enough to come to an accord with Pomerania sooner, perhaps the young man you were would not have needed to be excused," Franz said thoughtfully. "But this is all water under the bridge. The ballroom will be filling up by now, and I am aware that the princesses are all expecting to be announced as they enter." He glanced toward the door, and sighed. "And I have a small confession to make."
Frederick rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed in impatience and annoyance, though he knew he had no choice but to play along. He had learned how to play his part well over the years and was no longer a foolish youth, though he knew he would never meet anyone who could ever compete with his Genevieve - the only woman he had ever loved, lost to time. Without noble blood of her own, she had not been considered a suitable bride, and had withdrawn from court of her own accord. He had never seen her again, but he had never forgotten her either. "What confession is that?" Frederick asked as he donned his gloves.
"There ....may be a face that looks familiar among the crowd," Franz offered awkwardly. "I'm told the lady greatly favors her mother, who was .....shall we say, known to you before her departure from court?"
Frederick lifted his gaze to the other man, a puzzled look on his face. "I beg your pardon?" he asked. He had heard what the other man had said, but he was not so sure he understood his meaning.
Franz cleared his throat. He knew confessing now was a good idea; far better than allowing his king to get the shock of his life in a room full of eyes watching him. But that didn't make it easy. "The lady in question hails from Kediri," he explained. "Her father, the Comte de Chalagne, passed away before the year turned. She is, however, of suitable rank, and her name appeared on the list of recommended ladies given to us by the King of Kediri." He paused, eying his friend and king warily for a moment. "Her stepmother will be accompanying her. Her mother, sadly, died of childbed fever shortly after the lady's birth. You're going to make me say her name, aren't you." It was not a question; more of a resigned statement of fact.
Frederick narrowed his eyes at his friend, not because he was angry, but only because he was confused. What in the Goddess' name was he going on about, and what made this particular woman more special than any other? "I have no idea what you're talking about, Franz. Please explain."
"The lady's mother, before she was married, was Genevieve von Marchelle." Franz visibly braced himself at this point; that name had not been spoken aloud at the Carantan court for more than twenty years, out of respect for the man standing in front of him.
Though the name might not have been spoken, it had certainly been thought. Countless nights Frederick had laid awake in bed alone wondering what had become of her, and here Franz was telling him her daughter was here and was one of the many hopefuls. The King blanched, grasping hold of a chair to keep himself upright, though he had not yet laid eyes on the girl. "Genny," he whispered quietly, his mind traveling back through twenty years to youthful memories of love and loss. "I should break your nose for that, Franz," he said, coming out of his thoughts.
"I was not aware that her daughter had grown to favor her so much until I overheard one of the servants discussing it yesterday evening," Franz said apologetically. "If I had known, I likely would not have extended the invitation to her. As it stands, I am afraid that your nobility may well spend the evening pestering the young lady for having her mother's face." He raised a brow at the almost absent threat to his nose. "You could certainly try, Your Majesty, but then you would have to explain to all your guests why your Chancellor is bleeding on them."