Page 5 of Of Blood & Bone: The Young Queen

“Oh, that such a man could present himself at the Harvesting,” I declare to my empty chamber and groan at the thought of what awaits me, “but alas, it seems such men only exist in dreams.”

I place my hands by my side, ready to push myself up, to start getting ready for this day of all days and am surprised when my right hand lands on something cold and hard. I pick it up and can’t believe my eyes as I hold the piece of moonstone from my dream in my hand.

Chapter Two

I stand before the imposing wooden doors of the Great Hall and am surprised to find I'm not as nervous as I thought I would be. I've been dreading this day for months, ever since the end of the last Harvesting back in spring. A small part of me hopes this Harvesting is successful and some of the lords who have put themselves forward as prospective suitors are found to be suitable. This is the queen part of me, who wishes to do right by her people. However, the woman part of me hopes they all fail, and I am not left having to choose one of them as my future king.

I have received each lord in turn over the past few days, except for Greythorne, and one has proven as obnoxious as the next, with each one being cocksure they will pass the test of male virility that is the Harvesting, to become my future king. Greythorne, however, proved to be the most cocksure of all, believing he was above the Harvesting and didn't need to pass any test to be considered as a prospective suitor. I can only imagine the brutal amount of pressure and threats that were levelled against him by his family to cajole him into coming here today. It’s been some years since I last saw him, but the cruel twist of his face from our last meeting is still imprinted on my mind. I shudder at the prospect that he may pass the test and prove to be my only choice.

There is another way…

The words from my dream sound in my mind and I squeeze the moonstone tighter in the palm of my hand. The trumpets sound, as the fanfare to announce my entrance begins. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. An image of the rugged warrior appears in my mind’s eye and his words sound in myears,“You are a queen. You are powerful, and you shall take what you need. Have no fear. Embrace your power.”

A feeling of strength ripples through me and, as the doors open, I raise my chin and fix the most regal expression on my face that I can muster. I put one foot in front of the other and slowly make my way through the assembled lords and ladies towards my throne. I don’t look either side of me and make eye contact with no-one. However, I spy each of my suitors and their respective entourages from the side of my eye. They are placed in order of their perceived importance within the Highborne families and Ardvallan society, with the most important at the top of the Great Hall, nearest the throne, and the least important closest to the doors. Of course, importance is made up of many different factors, such as wealth, heritage, power, and how dangerous a family or person within that family is deemed to be. I'm wise enough to know that despite where they stand within today’s pecking order, their true standings, whether in terms of their political connections or how much they are feared, should not be overlooked.

I proceed to the dais, in the centre of which is my throne. My ladies arrange my gown and I sit. I've chosen a gown of silver silk and black velvet, as I feel the occasion is not exactly a cause for celebration for me and I wish for my clothing to project my mood, which can best be described as sombre. Atop my head is the Dorchú Crown made of white gold with a large oval shaped piece of Raven's Eye gemstone as its centrepiece. According to legend, the Dorchú Crown was crafted centuries ago by a master craftsman who infused the gold with fae blood. It is said to bestow special powers of insight upon those who wear it. I'm hoping this particular legend is true and the crown won't let me down today, as I believe I will need all my wits about me and every scrap of intuition and insight to get me through to sunset.

The trumpets cease and the Grand Master rises from his seat beside me.

"Lords and ladies, sirs and gentlemen, and the good gentlefolk of Ardvalla, I welcome you to the court of Queen Elinor today for the Harvesting ceremony. We especially welcome those lords who have submitted themselves for the Harvesting and who wish to be considered as suitable suitors for the hand of the queen. Each esteemed lord is held in high regard by the Grand Council and the queen herself, but of course their suitability depends on how they fare here today.” He pauses his slimy voiced soliloquy just long enough to deliver a twisted smile to the room, looking at each lord in turn and bestowing a conspiratorial look on his nephew, the fishlike Lord Crottingham.

I shudder at the prospect of them having cooked up something between them and wonder if they have somehow pre-empted the ceremony. Do they know with certainty that Lord Crottingham is suitable? Or is something more sinister going on? Has the Grand Master somehow intervened to make sure his nephew succeeds?

I squeeze the moonstone tight in the palm of my hand and feel a sense of comfort move through me.

No,a voice sounds inside my head,trust in the process. Your grandmother made it so the Harvesting is foolproof. Nobody can cheat it.

I think back to my grandmother and how different it was for her when she created the Harvesting. She had been smart enough to know it was only a matter of time before what was happening in general Ardvallan society would affect the Highborne families and the monarchy. So, to prevent the possibility of any future queen from marrying a potentially infertile mate, she created the Harvesting, the process whereby prospective suitors must submit their seed to see if it is viableor not. If it is not, then they cannot be considered as a suitable marriage prospect for the queen.

This was all very well for my grandmother, as matters weren’t at such a crisis point when it came time for her to select a husband and she ended up with twenty suitors. The possibility of her finding a true and lasting love from the twenty was significantly greater than that of my mother who ended up with five. Thankfully, one of them happened to be her true love and they enjoyed a long and happy union. However, I am left in the precarious position where, so far, none of the Highborne Lords have passed the test and with the distinct possibility that I may be left with only one potential suitor. This would mean, in the absence of any other options, he would have a clear run to the throne and my bed. May the gods help me, but as much as I wish to do right by my realm, I can’t bear the thought of having to lie with any of the pathetic specimens currently lined up in front of me.

Perhaps I’m being too hard on them,I muse, and take a quick glance down at the assembled lords and their entourages.

Closest to me on my left is the very overdressed Lord Sutton. The Sutton family don’t have the largest or most abundant lands, but they are very strategically placed, with one mountain pass in particular being quite lucrative. Travellers and traders can either choose to descend the mountain and cross into the neighbouring realms via the lowland crossings, or simply pay tithes to the Suttons to use the mountain pass and continue on their way. There are rumours the pass is a favourite of those who may be in a hurry to get from one realm to another or who might be transporting goods of a rare or possibly illegal nature. I suspect the tithes are somewhat higher in these cases, which would explain the significant wealth of the Suttons.

The eldest son, Lord Henry Sutton, is being presented to me today as a prospective suitor for my hand. One thingabout the Suttons is they don’t believe in hiding their wealth, and he is bedecked in a confection of blue and gold frills and brocade of the finest silks that I’m sure were acquired from the most prominent fashion houses in Sipar. His brown hair falls in styled ringlets around his face, and if I’m not mistaken, his blue eyes have been ever so slightly enhanced with eye pencil. I have no doubt he thinks himself most suave and fashionable and, from the look of disdain on his face, far more sophisticated and superior to the other lords. However, to me, he looks like an insufferable fop.

To the right is Lord Gosford. The little bit of hair he has left is slicked across the top of his bald head, the dark tendrils giving the impression he has been mauled across the top of his bare pate by a wild mountain cat. His grey, lifeless eyes are as dull as ever, and the mud like hues of his garments don't help the overall impression he exudes of being the most boring man here. Unfortunately, he is also one of the richest, which, despite his paunch and balding head, he believes makes him quite the catch. He's about ten years older than all my other prospective suitors and has already been married. The union failed to produce a child and he promptly divorced his wife after a year. The fact that she went on to marry again, albeit to a man of much lower social standing, and bear a son to her second husband, has not deterred him from presenting himself here today. He obviously believes, despite clear evidence to the contrary, the fault for his childless marriage lies with his ex-wife and couldn't possibly have anything to do with him. It seems his lack of personality is only outmatched by the size of his ego.

Second on my left is the enormous Lord Bottomleigh. The Bottomleighs are renowned for their wealth. Their lands are vast and mostly located in the lowlands. The lush fields are criss-crossed with rivers and forests and there is nothing that doesn't grow or live there. It is often referred to as the garden of Ardvallaand is responsible for much of the food that supplies the realm, and none are known to enjoy the bounty of their province more so than the Bottomleighs themselves.

I have the questionable pleasure of the eldest son, Lord Archibald Bottomleigh, presenting himself as a possible suitor today. He is the only one who is not standing as he has been borne to the ceremony by a number of bearers upon an ornate sedan chair. In addition to being known for their great wealth, the Bottomleighs are also renowned for their incredible laziness. It would seem, as far as they are concerned, endless wealth and abundance does not lend itself to unnecessary physical exertion. However, I have reason to believe there is one physical activity in which the male Bottomleighs regularly indulge and are quite capable of abusing their positions as lords in order to do so.

Lord Archibald’s grandfather was a prominent ‘blamer,’ declaring the falling birth rate to be the fault of Ardvallan women. His solution to the problem was more sex and to demand that the women of his province submit themselves without question when a husband, suitor or lover sought to sow his seed. This very quickly got out of hand and resulted in many women fleeing the province with tales of rape and abuse. It got to the point where my grandmother had to intervene, and it was only the threat of losing his lands and castle that made Lord Archibald’s grandfather retract his words.

However, it is widely believed he continued with his abusive ways in private, as did his son, Archibald’s father, who in turn passed the tradition on to his son, Lord Archibald. He sits before me now, being waited upon by a number of maidens. They are dressed in the traditional attire of the province, with full skirts cinched in at the waist and fitted blouses on top. However, there is one crucial difference, the necks of the blouses are cut low, so low the maidens’ breasts are nearly fully on show with the darkened areas of their nipples peeking out as theymove. Archibald sits there with a leery grin on his face, helping himself to various fruits from a platter one of the maidens holds in front of him. The juice of a ripe damson runs down his face and another maiden appears at his side to wipe his chin. He fondles her buttocks as she does so and leers lustily at her. When she straightens, he places his hand on her stomach and it’s then I notice the rounded protrusion of her belly. She’s with child. He throws a gloating look around the Great Hall, pausing to deliver a self-satisfied smirk to each of the other lords and then grins up at me. His message is clear – the Harvesting is merely a formality for him as he has brought proof that his seed is good.

A wave of nausea washes over me at the prospect of ever having to lie with Lord Archibald and I squeeze the moonstone tight in my hand. I thank the gods for its presence as it’s the only source of comfort available to me today.

Second on my right is Lord Roderick Glindenbrooke. With his white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes he is definitely the most handsome of the current crop of prospective suitors, but during his audience with me I also found him to be the coldest. The Glindenbrookes are from the northernmost part of the realm where the mountain peaks are dusted with snow for most of the year. The people are known for their taciturn and suspicious nature and outsiders rarely do well there, finding it hard to gain acceptance with the province’s tribes. I could easily have put his frigid nature down to the fact he is from Cragmore province, but I felt there was something more at play. I have since made some discreet inquiries and can't help wondering if the rumours about him are true, that he prefers the company of men, not only at his table but also in his bed chamber.

Whereas Cragmore province is the smallest in the realm and its terrain the least abundant, it has one major element in its favour, silver. Its mountains are full of it, and it’s said the rivers there shimmer like a vision from a fairytale in thesummer sunshine. The skills of its silversmiths and blacksmiths are legendary and it's said a sword inlaid with Cragmore silver is unbreakable. It is for this reason Lord Glindenbrooke is placed so close to my throne today, as he has amassed a fortune, not only from the sale of silver, but by supplying Cragmore swords to other realms. They are highly sought-after by the rulers of other realms who have paid handsomely to put them in the hands of their soldiers.

He stands at the head of his retinue, made up entirely of men, staring straight ahead with his back ramrod straight, his chilly, aloof demeanour reflected in the rigid set of his jaw and icy eyes. I imagine he would see lying with me as being solely a perfunctory task for him to perform, a cold and clinical act, and I shiver at the possibility of having to share my bed with him.

Third on my left is Lord Montrose. He’s older than some of the other suitors but not as old as Gosford, and has never married. He is vastly wealthy and spends much of his time travelling to other realms, which is reflected in his manner of dress. He is decked out in a collection of silk and satin, wearing a long coat of red and gold brocade that starts with a high collar at his neck and falls to below his knees. It’s buttoned all the way down and the buttons are made from rare golden pearls. His yellow silk pants fall loosely about his legs and his shoes are more like slippers, with an ornate golden tassel in the centre of each.

His entourage is made up of a mix of men and women and he stands in front of them with a smile on his face, as if he is privy to a secret not known to anyone else in the Great Hall. However, I suspect I know his secret and I will have confirmation before the sun sets. I have it on good authority that Lord Montrose travels not just to do trade and business, but also to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh with more exotic and duskier skinned maidens than he can find in Ardvalla. I also have reasonto believe he has brought a number of these maidens back to Ardvalla in secret and keeps them captive within the confines of his palace.

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