Chapter Two:
The Raven and the Dove
Eirwen was almost eleven years old when her father decided to remarry. She did not understand the politics of it, other than the fact that politics were involved, and that the marriage was ‘not a love match.’
“No one could ever compete with your mother,” King Olwen explained.
Eirwen’s heart ached. “Poor Queen Bianca,” she sighed.
“Why do you say that, little dove?”
“It must be sad for her to leave her country and everyone she knows behind to marry a man who won’t love her back.”
Her father laughed, patting her dark head. “Come now, I’m sure she’s not put out at all. She arranged this marriage herself, and has been married before. It may be that no one will replace her husband for her, either.”
Eirwen shrugged, unsure of how adults thought of things. “She has a son, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, Prince Cole. He’s a couple of years older than you. He’ll be your new brother.”
Eirwen pulled a face.
“Stepbrother then,” the king corrected himself. “And don’t pull a face at that. It will be good for you to have other children of your own station about.”
“My station?”
“You won’t be a child for much longer, dove. You can’t be chasing around the servants’ children forever.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just not how it’s done.”
“Why–”
“So many questions this morning! You should ask your governess.”
Eirwen sighed, knowing the conversation had reached its conclusion, and doubting she would get a much better answer out of her governess.
When her nursemaid tucked her into bed that night, she asked her about it instead. Niamh was her second favourite person in the castle, after her father. It was Niamh who had raised her when her mother died not long after she was born, Niamh who soothed scraped knees and tucked her up each night with a tale or song from long ago. She had long light hair, unusual for Aberthinians, who were traditionally brown or black, and warm eyes that cast the impression of firelight. Although she’d looked after Eirwen all of her young life, she always tried to explain things properly.
“It’s not seen as proper, love,” she said, “nobles mixing with commoners.”
“Yes, butwhy?Aren’t we the same?”
Niamh kissed her forehead. “In the ways that matter, of course. But not in all of the ways. Prince Cole is more… your sort.”
He did not seem like her ‘sort’.
He arrived the next day in a fabulous carriage of gold and silver, in a royal procession unlike anything Eirwen had ever seen before. It went on for miles. Carts of jewels, exotic spices, fine gowns, spools of painted fabric from faraway lands, silks and satins, furs and laces, perfumes from every corner of the world, furniture so bright it was like painting with sunlight. Eirwen, in the mountain kingdom of snow and ice, had never seen so much colour before.
The Queen stepped out first, and her father went to greet her. She was as radiant as her belongings, with a crown of dark-gold curls piled atop her perfect, elegant face and eyes like cut glass, blue-grey, stormy. Her high cheekbones were sharp and angular, and she was as pale as a porcelain doll.
She smiled dazzlingly when she beheld Eirwen.
“You are as beautiful as they said you were, child,” she said, dropping to her level. “I am delighted to meet you. I am sure we shall become fast friends.”
There was something in her face that Eirwen couldn’t fathom, a frostiness beneath the veneer of friendliness. Something held back, a plastered emotion, a candle without a flame.
She’s just new, she doesn’t know you, you’re imagining things.