November 13th, 1613
The marriage of the High King's eldest son and heir was always going to be an ornate event, filled with pomp and circumstance, each moment of the day co-ordinated with ruthless efficiency by the Pomeran Chancellor and his staff. For three days, the capital city of Berengaria had been buzzing with excitement, from the richest to the poorest, everyone eager to celebrate not just the marriage, but the alliance that it would cement. Diplomatic representatives from across Meringia had come to witness the event and bear the news back to their respective kings and courts; even the Dalai himself, the Supreme Head of the Church of the Goddess, had come from Gelre to officiate the ceremony himself. The streets between the castle and the great Temple of the Goddess were lined with cheering people long before the noon bells were due to ring, each awaiting the passing of the nobles, impatient to see their High King and Queen, the princes, and indeed, their new princess.
As noon approached, the carriages began to rattle from the castle, the horses bearing noblemen alongside their ladies settled in those carriages, each brightly adorned in celebration of the marriage. The cheers grew deafening as one particular closed carriage made its way past the crowds, everyone craning for a glimpse of the girl inside, though they would not see her truly until she was a wife. And after that carriage came the High King and his Queen on horseback, leading their sons toward the Temple and the great alliance about to be cemented.
The cheers of the people rang through the capital city, wildly proclaiming their affection for their ruling family, and yet, within the vast sanctum of the Temple, they could not be heard. The gentle voices of the acolytes lifted in tuneful prayer filled the space on the edge of hearing; drifts of sweetly scented smoke passed overhead. The Statue of the Goddess Herself stood at the center of the sanctuary, dominating the altar, smiling down on the gathered congregation as nobles and diplomats took their places, as Philippe and Catherine took their own seats beneath the royal canopy to one side of the altar itself. As the Dalai, a venerable old man who was still sharp enough not to rock the political boat, moved to the altar, a hush fell over the inhabitants of the Temple. It was time.
As for the Crown Prince, he was dressed in his finest clothes, fit for the king he would presumably one day become, all in royal purple to match that of his princess and bride. He was all smiles, it seemed, and why shouldn't he be? He was marrying not only to cement an alliance between their two nations, but he was lucky enough to also be marrying for a love that was slowly blossoming between them.
As the voices of the acolytes swelled, all eyes turned to the head of the aisle, where Princess Marianne now stood. Her gown had been made in the style of Pomerania - rich purple, the under-dress sparkling gold and silver. The only hint of Francia about her was the silver belt that had been a gift from her father, and the careful dressing of her hair in braided curls that bounced with each step. There was no veil; no fall of chestnut to hide her pale face as she began the long walk toward the altar, one hand laid over that of Ambassador Chappel.
To all outward appearances, she was calm and collected, perhaps even unmoved, her expression smooth, determined to be dignified. Yet when the ambassador released her hand at the halfway point, there was a moment, however brief, when she seemed to hesitate, drawing her hands together at her waist to walk the last distance alone. It was a symbol of her having been given to Pomerania, of having renounced her allegiance to Francia, but it was a long walk for a young girl under so many judging eyes.
But at the end of that long walk, her groom waited, his eyes watching her as closely as the rest of the congregation but for very different reasons. His expression was one of quiet and calm reassurance and obvious admiration for his bride-to-be. He waited until she drew close and then he stretched out a hand to welcome her and draw her toward the altar where they were pledge themselves to each other, sealing the union between themselves and their two nations. He understood her nervousness, but was confident that both his family and the people would soon grow to love and appreciate her kindness and gentleness the way that he did.
Only he was aware of her trembling as her hand found its place in his, warm and trusting as he drew her before the Dalai. For all the pomp that surrounded them, the marriage rite of the Goddess was a short ceremony, something for which grooms and brides had been grateful for centuries. As the old man began to speak, Marianne drew in a slow, deep breath, willing herself to relax, knowing that there was no earthly way she could be sent home in disgrace now. That within just a few minutes, she would be the wife of a man who was slowly but surely winning her heart away from her, without even trying. "May the grace of the Goddess be with you all," the Dalai intoned, his voice strong despite his age, filling the vast space around them with the authority of his position. "Marriage is the blessing of the Goddess, Her greatest gift, that of abiding love and devotion between a man and a woman. It is a mystical union. May it be adorned with true and abiding devotion, and blessed with fruit."
That fruit, Stephan knew, was children, and he could not deny that he was hoping for at least a few sons from their union, but there was no rush. He knew Marianne was young enough to produce many good sons and daughters, once she learned that there could be pleasure and not pain between a husband and his wife. He had promised he would save her from embarrassment on this their wedding night, and he intended to keep that promise, one way or another. But first came the ceremony and the feasts before the wedding bed. He could not help but feel her trembling, and he gave her hand a soft squeeze from his own in hopes of reassuring her just a little as the ceremony started. There was no turning back now, only moving forward. He smiled a little at the Dalai's words, hoping she would come to love him and prove those words true, hoping he would make for not only a good king but a good husband and father, one to rival even his own father before him.
The thought of fruit from their union was a little too much for Marianne to consider at that moment. What loomed large in her mind, more than anything, was what she was certain would be the humiliation of the bedding ceremony that night. She trusted Stephan, but though he had promised he had a plan to overcome that awful ceremony ahead of them, she couldn't see quite how he could keep such a promise in the face of centuries of tradition. Still, she held tight to his hand as the Dalai spoke the familiar words, turning to look up at the Crown Prince when she was bidden. "Prince Stephan of the House of Hasperan, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together at the Goddess' will in the holy estate of matrimony' Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only to her, so long as you both shall live?"
"I shall," Stephan replied, turning to face his new bride, a soft smile on his face as he took both her hands between his own, blue eyes clear and shining with pride and joy. His thoughts at the moment were not of the bedding ceremony, but of hope for the future that spread out before them - hopeful she would come to love him and that they would be happy together. Love was a rare thing in an arranged marriage such as theirs, but he could do no more than treat her with kindness and gentleness and hope that she was content in her life here with him.
The marriage of the High King's eldest son and heir was always going to be an ornate event, filled with pomp and circumstance, each moment of the day co-ordinated with ruthless efficiency by the Pomeran Chancellor and his staff. For three days, the capital city of Berengaria had been buzzing with excitement, from the richest to the poorest, everyone eager to celebrate not just the marriage, but the alliance that it would cement. Diplomatic representatives from across Meringia had come to witness the event and bear the news back to their respective kings and courts; even the Dalai himself, the Supreme Head of the Church of the Goddess, had come from Gelre to officiate the ceremony himself. The streets between the castle and the great Temple of the Goddess were lined with cheering people long before the noon bells were due to ring, each awaiting the passing of the nobles, impatient to see their High King and Queen, the princes, and indeed, their new princess.
As noon approached, the carriages began to rattle from the castle, the horses bearing noblemen alongside their ladies settled in those carriages, each brightly adorned in celebration of the marriage. The cheers grew deafening as one particular closed carriage made its way past the crowds, everyone craning for a glimpse of the girl inside, though they would not see her truly until she was a wife. And after that carriage came the High King and his Queen on horseback, leading their sons toward the Temple and the great alliance about to be cemented.
The cheers of the people rang through the capital city, wildly proclaiming their affection for their ruling family, and yet, within the vast sanctum of the Temple, they could not be heard. The gentle voices of the acolytes lifted in tuneful prayer filled the space on the edge of hearing; drifts of sweetly scented smoke passed overhead. The Statue of the Goddess Herself stood at the center of the sanctuary, dominating the altar, smiling down on the gathered congregation as nobles and diplomats took their places, as Philippe and Catherine took their own seats beneath the royal canopy to one side of the altar itself. As the Dalai, a venerable old man who was still sharp enough not to rock the political boat, moved to the altar, a hush fell over the inhabitants of the Temple. It was time.
As for the Crown Prince, he was dressed in his finest clothes, fit for the king he would presumably one day become, all in royal purple to match that of his princess and bride. He was all smiles, it seemed, and why shouldn't he be? He was marrying not only to cement an alliance between their two nations, but he was lucky enough to also be marrying for a love that was slowly blossoming between them.
As the voices of the acolytes swelled, all eyes turned to the head of the aisle, where Princess Marianne now stood. Her gown had been made in the style of Pomerania - rich purple, the under-dress sparkling gold and silver. The only hint of Francia about her was the silver belt that had been a gift from her father, and the careful dressing of her hair in braided curls that bounced with each step. There was no veil; no fall of chestnut to hide her pale face as she began the long walk toward the altar, one hand laid over that of Ambassador Chappel.
To all outward appearances, she was calm and collected, perhaps even unmoved, her expression smooth, determined to be dignified. Yet when the ambassador released her hand at the halfway point, there was a moment, however brief, when she seemed to hesitate, drawing her hands together at her waist to walk the last distance alone. It was a symbol of her having been given to Pomerania, of having renounced her allegiance to Francia, but it was a long walk for a young girl under so many judging eyes.
But at the end of that long walk, her groom waited, his eyes watching her as closely as the rest of the congregation but for very different reasons. His expression was one of quiet and calm reassurance and obvious admiration for his bride-to-be. He waited until she drew close and then he stretched out a hand to welcome her and draw her toward the altar where they were pledge themselves to each other, sealing the union between themselves and their two nations. He understood her nervousness, but was confident that both his family and the people would soon grow to love and appreciate her kindness and gentleness the way that he did.
Only he was aware of her trembling as her hand found its place in his, warm and trusting as he drew her before the Dalai. For all the pomp that surrounded them, the marriage rite of the Goddess was a short ceremony, something for which grooms and brides had been grateful for centuries. As the old man began to speak, Marianne drew in a slow, deep breath, willing herself to relax, knowing that there was no earthly way she could be sent home in disgrace now. That within just a few minutes, she would be the wife of a man who was slowly but surely winning her heart away from her, without even trying. "May the grace of the Goddess be with you all," the Dalai intoned, his voice strong despite his age, filling the vast space around them with the authority of his position. "Marriage is the blessing of the Goddess, Her greatest gift, that of abiding love and devotion between a man and a woman. It is a mystical union. May it be adorned with true and abiding devotion, and blessed with fruit."
That fruit, Stephan knew, was children, and he could not deny that he was hoping for at least a few sons from their union, but there was no rush. He knew Marianne was young enough to produce many good sons and daughters, once she learned that there could be pleasure and not pain between a husband and his wife. He had promised he would save her from embarrassment on this their wedding night, and he intended to keep that promise, one way or another. But first came the ceremony and the feasts before the wedding bed. He could not help but feel her trembling, and he gave her hand a soft squeeze from his own in hopes of reassuring her just a little as the ceremony started. There was no turning back now, only moving forward. He smiled a little at the Dalai's words, hoping she would come to love him and prove those words true, hoping he would make for not only a good king but a good husband and father, one to rival even his own father before him.
The thought of fruit from their union was a little too much for Marianne to consider at that moment. What loomed large in her mind, more than anything, was what she was certain would be the humiliation of the bedding ceremony that night. She trusted Stephan, but though he had promised he had a plan to overcome that awful ceremony ahead of them, she couldn't see quite how he could keep such a promise in the face of centuries of tradition. Still, she held tight to his hand as the Dalai spoke the familiar words, turning to look up at the Crown Prince when she was bidden. "Prince Stephan of the House of Hasperan, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together at the Goddess' will in the holy estate of matrimony' Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only to her, so long as you both shall live?"
"I shall," Stephan replied, turning to face his new bride, a soft smile on his face as he took both her hands between his own, blue eyes clear and shining with pride and joy. His thoughts at the moment were not of the bedding ceremony, but of hope for the future that spread out before them - hopeful she would come to love him and that they would be happy together. Love was a rare thing in an arranged marriage such as theirs, but he could do no more than treat her with kindness and gentleness and hope that she was content in her life here with him.