Washing Wheat
I was a princess ennobled by my father, the late king. Marrying the general of the northern frontier, Griffin Quenell was already a great show of royal favor.
On my wedding day, just as my royal carriage arrived at the Quenell family’s courtyard, a woman dressed in grey wool knelt before the castle gate. She held a swaddled infant in her arms.
Griffin, as the groom of the day, dressed in his wedding tunic, blocked my path with a troubled expression.
“Your Grace, Joan is someone I met in the borderlands. She bore me a son and now has no place to go. Please let her move in with me on this special occasion. You’ll be my first wife, and she’ll be my second wife. It’s all for the sake of the Quenell bloodline.”
The guests at the gate erupted into commotion.
His grandmother, Wilma Quenell, spoke firmly. “Your Grace, you were born into royalty. You certainly do not lack a title. However, Griffin is the only son the Quenell family has had in three generations. This child bears the Quenell name. We surely can’t make him an illegitimate child.”
The border soldiers knelt and said in unison, “Your Grace, have mercy!”
I looked down at the child in the swaddle, then at Griffin’s pleading gaze.
I smiled, removed my coronet from my head, and placed it on the wedding table.
Then, I turned and boarded my carriage.
“General Quenell, I will not stop you from wanting an heir, but my late father’s decree said I am to be married, not given away as a gift. If your family cannot abide by his words, then I shall take the decree back with me.”