Here, as promised, is The Cloak of Challiver, Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

It had been a week since the birthday celebrations, and Milana had felt restless ever since. She tried to settle down in the arbour with an old book. It was about a knight who loved a princess who was promised to a foreign prince. Unable to have the lady of his dreams, he wasted away and died. She’d read it before, and found herself growing impatient with the foolish man. Surely people didn’t die for love in real life?

She looked up from her book as Binny bustled into the arbour, wiping her hands on the big blue apron she always wore. Many a time Milana had cried into that apron when she was little and had fallen and hurt herself, or when Urbancho had been bullying her. Even when it had just been washed it smelt of flour and oil and the medicines that Binny made in the stillroom.

‘Madam, there’s word that Prince Morifer is on his way up from the port. My, what a surprise! We didn’t expect him until the end of the week. Don’t you think you’d better come inside and get dressed to greet him?’

Milana’s heart sank. Morifer, here already? She suddenly realised how much she had been dreading this moment.

‘I suppose you’re right, Binny. I must go and change.’

She’d known that Morifer was coming especially to spend time with her, so they could make up their minds about the proposed marriage, but oh, why so soon? She would have preferred him to wait another month, or until Autumnfest, or next year sometime…‘At least,’ she thought as she hurried back to her chamber, ‘Daddy won’t force me into marrying against my will. But Morifer must be keen on this match if he’s come so early.’

Her mother was waiting impatiently for her. She already had Milana’s best dark red velvet overgown, trimmed with ermine, lying on the bed. Appearances were important, at first meetings especially.

‘Hurry up, Milana’, said her mother. ‘We only got word of Prince Morifer’s arrival a short time ago. 

'Here, let me unlace your robe.’

The lacings loosened, Milana freed herself from the sleeves and let the robe slide to the floor. She stepped out of the robe and pulled her shirt over her head. Her mother handed her a new cream silk shirt that had been imported from Aristand only the week before. Then came the heavy overgown with its draped sleeves, and an embroidered surcoat that felt as heavy as one of the soup pots that hung over the kitchen fire.

Milana looked at herself critically in the bronze mirror that hung over her clothes chest. Her long fair plaits resembled foxes’ tails. She loosed her tresses and tugged a comb through the tangles.

Her mother shook her head in despair. ‘Here, sit down, child! You can’t go down looking like a goatherd’s daughter.’ She dragged the comb through Milana’s tresses again and again, jerking 

Milana’s head forward and back.

‘Mother, you’re hurting me!’

‘All right, all right, that will have to do! Come on, we’d better go down. He’ll be here any minute!’

Pushing stray strands of hair back as best she could with one hand, Milana gathered her skirts in the other and headed for the door. A page approached as they closed the door.

‘His majesty has asked that you come down as soon as possible, Madam. The Falrouvian delegation is on its way up the hill.’

‘Oh, by the Lady’s tears, Milana, make haste! It will look terrible if we’re not on the steps when Prince Morifer arrives!’ Her mother seized her hand and dragged her toward the staircase.

They hurried downstairs and through the Great Hall to the steps of the keep. Milana’s jewelled belt came undone as they reached the front door. She loosed herself from her mother’s grasp and tied the belt in place as the page on door duty let in the sunlight.

Breathless, mother and daughter joined their menfolk just as Prince Morifer and his retinue rode in. He was attended by several pages, a scribe or two, a brace of priests and a number of gentlemen-at-arms. It took Milana a few moments to work out why there were so many, and then she realised that they had come in the expectation of negotiating a marriage agreement, with arrangements for a dowry, trade partnerships and such.

‘Daddy, I thought we were only going to talk about it this time,’ she whispered. She was already starting to feel trapped.

‘So did I,’ replied her father, ‘but it looks as though Morifer’s already made up his mind!’

Prince Morifer was obviously into his thirties, but he was tall and well built, with regular features. 

Milana regarded him cautiously. His face was handsome enough, but his lanky fair hair and pale skin gave him a somewhat insipid air, and Milana was not especially impressed. With perfect manners, he greeted them one by one, and called forward several servants bearing gifts for each member of the family. Proudly, he presented Milana with a hound.

‘She comes from Falrouvia’s finest bloodlines,’ he boasted. ‘She’ll outrun a hare on level ground.’

Milana eyed the creature warily. It was a great brute of a bitch, standing as high as her hip. Milana beckoned a servant to come and take the leash from the prince’s hand. She smiled and thanked him, but inwardly she groaned. She detested hunting and only rarely went out with the parties her father occasionally organised. Even when she went, she took a book with her.

‘I don’t suppose I can expect Morifer to know my tastes and interests,’ she consoled herself, as she led the guests into the castle. ‘Maybe as we get to know each other, we’ll find some common ground.’ But in her heart, she knew she was clutching at a vain hope. Already, she knew Morifer was not the kind of man she wanted.

* * *

Within a day of Morifer’s arrival, Milana was finding the visit a strain. She tried to put on a cheerful face when they went for a walk in the garden. Her ladies walked several paces behind, talking among themselves. Milana wished she could walk with them, but her task was to entertain Morifer and get to know him better.

‘Do you read much?’ Milana asked the prince.

‘Read?’ Morifer looked puzzled. ‘I make a point of reading any state papers my father chooses to show me, of course.’ His face brightened. ‘And I read a fascinating treatise on the training of peregrines recently. I expect you fly a merlin, though, don’t you? They are usually the ladies’ favourite.’

‘No, I don’t own a hawk at all,’ Milana admitted.

‘Oh!’ Morifer sounded astonished, even alarmed. ‘When you come to Falrouvia, I shall find a suitable bird for you. I go hawking most days, weather permitting. My father has a fine gyr falcon, which he permits me to fly sometimes, seeing as I am the only son and will one day be king.’

Milana vaguely remembered hearing somewhere that only kings were permitted to fly certain birds, and the gyr falcon — whatever that was — must be one of them. She smiled at Morifer and made an appreciative comment, and was embarrassed to see his eyes light up as he smiled back. Inwardly, she grimaced. How was she going to talk to him for the rest of her life? And yet he appeared to be besotted by her. She wondered why. They had so little in common…

Milana’s last walk with Morifer was tense. She tried to keep up a flow of small talk, but she felt embarrassed by the way he kept looking at her with greedy eyes.

‘I am so looking forward to having you in Falrouvia,’ he said. ‘We shall go hunting and hawking every day and dance every night. And I shall be the envy of every prince in the world with such a beautiful and charming wife.’

‘I shall enjoy the dancing, but you know that I’m not an enthusiast of hunting and hawking, my lord.’

Her suitor brushed her warning aside. ‘I shall teach you to enjoy them. Once you have a merlin and some hounds of your own you will be as keen as I am, I’m sure.’

What could she say? It was almost, she thought, as if the prince were looking at her and seeing someone else: someone who met his fantasy of an ideal wife. She sighed inwardly but smiled as she offered him her hand. ‘I shall try to learn more about these things over the coming months, sir.’

As he bade her farewell, Milana struggled to convince herself that she had quashed her misgivings. The betrothal was, after all, what everyone else obviously wanted.

* * *

The next day, after a sleepless night, Milana went to see her father. He was ensconced in his study, as usual, looking over state papers.

‘Aha, my dear. I’m just looking over the proposal from Falrouvia. The terms seem favourable enough, but of course the proposed match depends on your final agreement. Morifer seems a decent enough fellow, don’t you think?’

Milana bit her lower lip. Her heart was pounding. Her father was a reasonable man, but he would not like what she had to say. ‘Well, I have no reason to say that he’s not, Father, but we have nothing in common. And there’s something just a bit… well, odd about him.’

‘Odd? In what way? He seems normal enough to me.’

‘It’s nothing I can explain… oh, I know it sounds silly, but there’s just a hint of something going on in the background, as if he was playing a role rather than being himself. And I have a feeling that himself is not very nice.’

‘Milana, I cannot base a refusal on something as nebulous as that. In fact, I’ve already told Morifer that I am happy for the match to go ahead if you are willing.’

‘But I’m not willing, Father. I don’t feel ready to marry anyone, and I really can’t imagine myself being happy with Morifer.

He set the papers aside. ‘I don’t want to force you, Milana, but there’s a lot hanging on this betrothal. Look, why don’t I tell Morifer that you’d like to wait for a year before formalising the betrothal? That should give you time to get used to the idea.’

Milana hesitated. She didn’t actually dislike Morifer, and she didn’t want to upset her father. ‘That’s a good idea. Tell him I want to go on a pilgrimage or something.’

Her father smiled. ‘I haven’t noticed any kind of religious streak in you before, daughter, but perhaps Morifer will be happy enough with a promise of a betrothal in a year’s time. I’ll suggest it to him.’

A year’s reprieve! Anything could happen in a year. ‘Yes, Father. Tell him you will consider the matter again in year’s time. When I’m back from my pilgrimage.’

Her father smiled.’ Very well, child, I will do that. You may go.’

Milana gave her father a sketchy curtsey and almost skipped out the door and down the spiral staircase. That had been much easier than she’d expected. A whole year! Probably Morifer would have found another, more suitable wife by then…

***

Many thanks to Cassandra for being such a lovely Milana!