Free The Silver Bowl by Diane Stanley Page B

so elegant no one need be told that they were royalty. You could see it in the way they walked, in the richness of their dress and the expressions on their faces.
    â€œThe noble Prince Rupert, eldest son of King Reynard of Austlind!”
    â€œThe right excellent Prince Alexander, second son of King Reynard of Austlind!”
    â€œThe most esteemed Prince Ambrose, third son of King Reynard of Austlind!”
    Three sullen princes followed their regal parents. It was clear they did not want to be there, had no interest in the wedding of some aunt they hardly knew. Most likely they’d begged to stay behind in Austlind—to hunt in the park or do whatever it was that young princes did for fun.
    That was just a guess, but I’d seen my share of snotty boys over the years. I’d bet a year’s wages I was right.
    â€œThe most excellent lady Gertrude, queen dowager, sister to our late sovereign, King Godfrey of Westria, and widow of the late esteemed King Osgood of Austlind!”
    Gertrude was old and as thin as a post, but you could tell she’d been a beauty once. Her skin was still fine, whiter than white, set off by a velvet gown the color of blood. Like Reynard and Beatrice, she didn’t bother to look about her to see the impression she was making. I suppose once you’ve been a queen you’re quite beyond that sort of thing.
    There was a brief pause, followed by another loud fanfare, longer and grander than before. It would be the royal family of Westria now.
    I made a quick scan of the room but saw nothing amiss: no furtive movements of hand to dagger, no furrowed brows, no shifty glances—just a sea of bright, expectant faces turned toward the door. And so I turned that way, too.
    â€œThe noble and mighty Prince Alaric of Westria, brother of King Edmund, our sovereign lord! The greatly beloved queen dowager, Marguerite, mother of King Edmund, our sovereign lord!”
    Ah. He was just as handsome as ever; his hair still curled about his shoulders with the glimmer of spun gold. But he had sprouted up like summer wheat, and his face was all angles and bones. He was more man than boy now.
    I remembered that day when I was seven, when I’d listened at the queen’s door—how angry they’d been with each other. And so I was glad to see them together now, the prince so attentive, cradling her arm, walking as slowly as she needed to, looking into her face from time to time with sweet concern to see that she was all right.
    Oh, Alaric , I thought, well done!
    The music began again, only now it was not just a fanfare. All the instruments were playing: pipe and lute and harp and viol, together with the horns.
    â€œLord Henry Hubert of Mockington and his lady wife, Princess Elinor of Westria, sister of King Edmund, our sovereign lord!”
    â€œOh, dear,” Winifred said, gasping and hiding a smile behind her hand. And she was not alone in this—for here came the princess, a tiny, birdlike thing nearly drowned in silk and velvet, and beside her the ponderous bridegroom, short, red faced, and fleshy. His lower lip hung down, his legs were like sausages, and perched upon his pendulous nose was a wart the size of a bean.
    They reached the dais now. We watched in horrified fascination as a page helped the princess step nimbly up, then offered his arm to Lord Henry Hubert. The bridegroom leaned so heavily upon the boy that they almost went tumbling down. But another page came quickly to the rescue, and between them they hauled the fellow up.
    At last the couple, ridiculous and sad, took their places of honor, and the final fanfare began.

Chapter 13
    Visions and Voices
    â€œHIS ROYAL MAJESTY, our dearly beloved sovereign lord, King Edmund of Westria!” the herald called out in a booming voice. “And the gracious and most esteemed Princess Anna Maria Elizabetta of Cortova!”
    There was a tremendous buzzing of excitement in the hall, for all were eager to see