Chapter Three: Three Names Upon the Table

Aurora had been born at four minutes past midnight. This minor inconvenience had been recorded in the royal archives, embroidered into a commemorative tapestry, and mentioned every year by the Bishop of Westmere as evidence that the Almighty favoured a fresh beginning.

Aurora suspected her mother would have preferred an earlier finish. Now, according to the clock above the breakfast room door, she had less than two days remaining in which to be twenty.

She buttered her toast.

“Do you suppose,” Belle asked, “that princes are taught to kiss?”

Aurora’s knife stopped. Across the table, Lady Penrose lowered her cup with extraordinary care.

“In the same way we are taught dancing,” Belle continued. “There must be some instruction. Otherwise, how dreadful for everyone.”

“Your Highness,” Lady Penrose said.

“What? I am not suggesting practical lessons.”

“That is enough.”

Belle looked at Aurora, seeking an ally. Aurora returned to her toast.

“I imagine they learn to make speeches about it first.”

Belle laughed into her napkin. Lady Penrose closed her eyes briefly.

Outside, wheels crunched over the courtyard gravel. Belle immediately leaned towards the window.

“Is that him?”

“Unless Prince Flynn has arrived with a wagon full of onions,” Aurora said, “I doubt it.”

“You might try being excited.”

“I am. The kitchens were running low.”

Belle sat back with a sigh. A footman entered before Aurora could take another bite.

“His Majesty requests your presence in the study, Your Highness.”

Belle straightened.

“Both of us?”

“Princess Aurora, Your Highness.”

Her sister’s disappointment lasted only a moment, but Aurora saw it. She set down her knife.

“Tell His Majesty I am coming.”

Her father was standing over a map when she arrived.

Three letters lay beside it. The same three letters, she thought, although someone had opened them fully now and weighted their corners with a silver lion. Henry glanced up.

“You have eaten?”

“Some toast.”

“Sit. There is coffee.”

Aurora sat without pouring any. Her mother’s advice from the gallery returned to her. Courtesy is not agreement. Henry finished reading a notation on the map, then dismissed his secretary with a nod. The door closed.

“I understand you have been asking questions about the marriage settlement.”

Aurora kept her hands still.

“Who told you?”

“Master Fenwick.”

“He is the keeper of the archives. I assumed questions were among his professional hazards.”

“He seemed concerned you believed he had been withholding documents.”

“He brought me a genealogy when I asked for the succession statutes.”

“Perhaps he misunderstood.”

“Three times?”

Henry took his chair.

“You may read the statutes.”

“Thank you.”

“With someone qualified to explain them.”

Aurora looked at the silver lion.

“Am I forbidden to understand them incorrectly by myself?”

“No. But I would prefer you not to build expectations upon a mistaken interpretation.”

“Then explain them to me.”

He leaned back. It was evidently not the answer he had expected.

“All right.”

Aurora waited.

“The settlement was written during your great grandfather’s reign, following the disputed accession of Queen Eleanor. It requires a female heir to marry with the approval of the Crown and the Assembly before she assumes sovereign authority.”

“Because Queen Eleanor governed badly?”

“Because two foreign courts claimed the right to govern through her marriage.”

“Then requiring another marriage seems an unusual remedy.”

“The settlement made approval necessary. Her husband had been chosen without it.”

Aurora considered that. It was not the explanation she had expected, either.

“And an unmarried son would face no such requirement?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Henry rubbed one finger along the arm of his chair.

“Because that is how it was written.”

“A remarkably durable answer.”

“It is not necessarily a satisfactory one. It remains the answer.”

That admission took some of the force from her next objection. She wished he would either be entirely unreasonable or agree with her. These measured concessions made opposition feel like trying to push open a door while someone politely held it half shut.

“What authority would my husband have?”

“The authority established in your marriage articles.”

“Not mine by right?”

“He would be king consort.”

“People would call him king.”

“Yes.”

“And if he gave an order that contradicted mine?”

“That would depend upon the order.”

Aurora said nothing. Henry’s expression changed.

“On matters of sovereign authority,” he amended, “yours would prevail.”

“Would the council know that?”

“The council understands the law.”

“Understanding something and accepting it are not always the same.”

For a moment, she thought he might be angry. Instead, he regarded her with an attention she rarely received from him outside formal lessons.

“No,” he said. “They are not.”

He drew the map closer. Aurora recognised the eastern coastline first, then the narrow straits beyond it.

“Prince Philip’s kingdom is small,” Henry said, “but its harbours accommodate vessels ours cannot.”

He pointed to a marked channel.

“Last winter, we lost two merchant ships attempting the northern passage. An eastern agreement would shorten the route.”

“So I am to improve shipping.”

“You are to understand what each marriage might bring.”

“And what it might cost?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him. He met her eyes.

“Yes, Aurora. That, too.”

He moved his hand to the western territories.

“Flynn’s father commands the largest standing army among our neighbours.”

“Flynn has four elder brothers.”

“He does.”

“Which suggests he is unlikely to inherit much beyond an excellent wardrobe.”

“His family connections remain valuable.”

“To us?”

“To both sides.”

Aurora glanced at the first letter. A bold signature swept across its lower edge. Flynn Sinclair had pressed so hard that the ink had spread into the fibres.

“And Alexander?”

Henry’s hand paused before travelling south. The mapmaker had rendered the southern hills in careful brown strokes. Along one border, tiny crossed swords marked disputed ground.

“William has had difficult years.”

“How difficult?”

“Three failed harvests. Flood damage. A border dispute he could not afford.”

“Could we help without requiring his son to marry me?”

“We already have helped.”

“How much?”

“That is not.”

She waited, Henry exhaled.

“Enough to know that charity without reform will not solve his difficulties.”

Aurora studied the little swords.

“Does Alexander know he has been invited because you feel sorry for his father?”

“That is not why.”

“Then why?”

“Because William once trusted me when it would have been easier not to.”

Her father’s voice had altered. She looked up. Henry smoothed the corner of the map.

“We were young. There was a hunting accident near the border. My horse fell. William stayed with me through the night rather than ride for help and leave me alone.”

“I have never heard that story.”

“It was not a particularly dignified night.”

“Were you badly hurt?”

“Badly frightened.”

The answer surprised her into silence.

“He was scarcely older than you are now,” Henry said. “We made promises about the sort of kings we would become.”

“And one of those promises concerned our children?”

“Eventually.”

Before either child existed, presumably. Aurora looked back at the southern kingdom.

“Is Alexander being considered seriously?”

“He is being received honourably.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“No,” Henry said after a moment. “It is not.”

Aurora rose and moved towards the window. In the courtyard below, two men were arguing over the position of a carpet. A third stood holding one end of it, apparently condemned to wait until diplomacy succeeded.

“Why these three?”

Her father gathered the letters.

“They are eligible. Their families are known to us. None has an existing marriage agreement.”

“That is a description of available horses.”

“Aurora.”

“There must be dozens of eligible men.”

“There are.”

“Then why must my choice be made from the ones you have already chosen?”

“Because invitations carry consequences. Because we cannot summon every unmarried prince in the known world and dismiss all but one without giving offence. Because your life is not conducted in private.”

She turned.

“That last part has been made very clear.”

Henry pushed his chair back.

“What would you have me do?”

The question sounded sincere. She could have asked for a year. For five years. For the right to meet someone without a council measuring his coastline. Instead, the words that emerged were smaller.

“Let me be good at something before you give me to someone who claims he can do it better.”

Her father’s expression shifted.

“You are not being given away.”

"Then why does everyone speak as though my husband will make me complete?”

He looked towards the door, although they were alone. Aurora felt suddenly ashamed of how much she had revealed. She clasped her hands behind her back.

“I can learn the accounts. I can sit in council. I can visit the estates and understand what the tenants need. But whenever I ask, there is a fitting, or a dinner, or someone who must not be offended.”

“Those are duties as well.”

“I know. I should like some others.”

Henry walked to the window. For several moments, they watched the men below finally agree upon the carpet.

“Your mother has managed a household of nearly four hundred people for twenty three years,” he said. “Do not mistake the work because it is done quietly.”

Aurora lowered her gaze.

“I do not.”

“Sometimes you sound as though you do.”

That struck where he intended it to. She thought of Matilda rearranging an entire room with a sentence and servants bringing problems to her that never reached the king.

“I don’t want her work to be the only work I am permitted.”

Henry nodded once, slowly.

“No,” he said. “I understand that.”

She wondered whether he truly did. He returned to the desk and opened a drawer.

“The grain committee meets on Monday.”

Aurora watched him take out a folded memorandum.

“They are reviewing rents in the northern estates after the late frosts. You may attend.”

Hope arrived so quickly that she distrusted it.

“To listen?”

“At first.”

“And afterwards?”

“If you have something useful to say, say it.”

He held out the memorandum. She crossed the room and took it. There were columns of figures inside, several names she recognised, and a note about arrears in a district she had never visited.

“Will Lord Harcourt object?”

“Almost certainly.”

"And if he does?”

“I shall remind him whose council it is.”

Aurora looked up. Her father’s mouth twitched.

“You might refrain from looking quite so astonished.”

“Forgive me.”

“Courtesy,” he said, “is occasionally more convincing without visible effort.”

She almost smiled. Then her gaze fell to the three letters.

“May I refuse them?”

The humour left his face.

“One of them?”

“All of them.”

He considered before answering.

“If you have sound reasons.”

“What qualifies as sound?”

“Cruelty, dishonesty or an impediment to marriage. A disposition wholly unsuited to your own.”

“Dislike?”

“Dislike is worth examining before it is made permanent.”

“Fear?”

Henry’s eyes rested on her.

“Tell me if you are afraid.”

It was more than she had expected, but not what she had wanted. She folded the memorandum carefully.

“And Belle?”

“What about her?”

“If the settlement permits a married daughter to inherit, could she.”

“No.”

The word came out harsh. Aurora held still.

“You have not heard the question.”

“I know the question.”

“She is also your daughter.”

“And she is eighteen.”

“Alexander is eighteen.”

“Alexander is not being asked to rule this kingdom.”

“Neither, apparently, am I without assistance.”

Henry’s patience thinned visibly.

“Belle has not been prepared.”

“Then prepare her.”

“This is not a burden you may set in your sister’s lap because you find it uncomfortable.”

Heat rose into Aurora’s face.

"I would ask her.”

“And she would agree because she likes jewels and applause and has not yet learned the difference between being admired and being obeyed.”

Aurora flinched on Belle’s behalf. Henry noticed. His voice softened, but the decision did not.

“You are my heir. That will not change because the prospect frightens you.”

When she left the study, the grain memorandum felt heavier than its few pages deserved. She paused beneath the portrait of an ancestor who had apparently secured his reputation by dying on a horse.

His painted hand rested upon a sword. No one had thought to surround him with three prospective wives and ask whether he preferred the harbours or the army.

From the gallery below came a sudden burst of music. A lute, she thought, followed by several quick notes on a pipe. Someone laughed. Another voice said something she could not hear, and the laughter doubled.

Aurora moved to the balustrade. A servant crossed below carrying a tray. Two footmen lingered near the musicians’ door until the steward sent them on with an irritated gesture.

The music stopped. Almost immediately, the palace seemed to remember itself. Aurora looked down at the memorandum. At its foot, in her father’s handwriting, were two words.

For Aurora.

She held on to that small distinction as she returned to her rooms. There was work she could begin before anyone arrived to tell her how it ought to be done.