Catherine had heard this all before. She knew about Pitoria, and the system of lords was much the same as in Brigant. She also knew that her father wouldn’t even consider her marrying a Pitorian until last year. That he’d changed his mind (one would hardly dare use the word “softened” with the king) to allow a Pitorian onto her list of suitors was surprising enough, but then there was the question of the groom’s health. Everyone in Brigant knew that Prince Tzsayn was deformed: deaf in one ear and hideously scarred. Her father was never tolerant of any illness or disability, but though there had been other eligible suitors, Prince Tzsayn had shot to the top of the list. And shortly after first hearing his name mentioned, Catherine had been informed that they were betrothed.
“Yes, I’ve read about the country, and I know about his family, but I’d like to know more about Prince Tzsayn.”
“The man himself, you mean?”
“Yes, the man himself.”
“A man of rank is indistinguishable from his role. Tzsayn is of the highest rank. He is next in line to the throne of Pitoria.”
“Yes, I know that, but what about him?”
“I really can’t think of anything else to tell you.”
Catherine was certain her mother was teasing her now and that she knew plenty more, but clearly she was going to make her work for it. It was almost a game between them. Catherine started with the most important point.
“How old is he?”
“Is that really relevant?”
“It’s vital for childbearing and maturity in his role as heir.”
The queen suppressed a smile. “I’m sure that’s your only reason for asking. He’s twenty-three.”
Which was not too old. He could have been ancient, as some of her other suitors had been.
The queen continued. “Tzsayn was born in December, I believe. On a new moon. Some say that makes for a cold personality.”
“Was he cold when you met him?”
“He was not without charm or intelligence.”
“That sounds like a “yes.’”
“Cool rather than cold. I sensed there was more to him than the chilly exterior, but, if there was, he had no inclination to show me.”
“Proud then.”
The queen shrugged. “He’s a man.”
“I’ve heard that he is deaf in one ear.”
“Perhaps you heard that wrong. I think he can hear quite as well as you or me, though he may pretend otherwise.”
“So he’s deceitful.”
“I got the impression it was more that he was easily bored.”
This sounded worrying. Would he find Catherine boring?
“And his attitude to marriage? To me?”
“Attitude?”
“Do you think he will be gentle and kind? Considerate of my needs?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Better that than cruel.”
“Gentleness and kindness don’t usually make for great rulers.”
“I want a husband for myself and a ruler for the kingdom.”
“Difficult to get both. But I believe he will suit you, my dear. The Pitorians are different from Brigantines. They’re increasingly influenced from the east. They do have a more liberal view of women’s roles, for example.”
“Liberal?”
“Tzsayn told me he had traveled to Illast and was impressed that women there ran businesses and kept their own houses, owned property.”
Interesting, thought Catherine, but irrelevant to me. Her chances of running a business were exactly nought. She would live in the prince’s castle, as much his property as any other object within.
She handed her mother the pamphlet that recommended women be caned for disobedience. “I’ve been reading this. I wonder if they agree with it in Pitoria.”
The queen looked through it. “You shouldn’t waste your time on this. No one should.” She dropped it on the table as if it were soiled. “You need something new for a new country. Something inspiring. There’s a biography of Queen Valeria of Illast you should read. She was an unusual woman and had an interesting life and marriage. I think that is what you need, my dear.”
“The book or the marriage?”
The queen smiled as she walked to the tall shelves. “I’ll find the book. But you must shape your marriage.”
Catherine didn’t dare say that what she really wanted was to not have a marriage like her mother’s—cold, loveless, and functional. And preferably not to Tzsayn. But that was what she would have. There was no other option. She would have to make the best of it.
But could there be love in her marriage? Would she love her husband? Could he love her? Did it matter? She’d had feelings for Ambrose, strong feelings, and while she’d denied it to herself before, now that she knew she’d never see him again, she could admit they had been feelings of love. But that’s all she’d ever have, her feelings and her memories of him. And she had learned from that too, though what she’d learned she wasn’t sure—mainly that not all men were like her father and brother. And she was determined not to forget Ambrose: his vulnerability and his strength, the way his hair would blow in the breeze, his way of standing, of walking, the incline of his head, the way he looked sideways, his shoulders, his thighs as he rode his horse. She’d once seen Ambrose training in the yard, the sweat on his neck, his shirt loose but clinging to the sweat of his back . . . But were those thoughts of love or desire? And could she love Tzsayn?
Her mother returned and handed Catherine a slender, leather-bound volume: the book about Queen Valeria. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask?”
“Umm. Yes. What about . . . love?” Catherine ventured, blushing as she said the word to her mother.
“Love?”
“I read that it may grow between two people.”
“Tzsayn may love you and you may love him. Show him kindness and gentleness, show him a little of your intelligence, develop your charm, and you will thrive in Pitoria.”
“I can’t imagine thriving there at all. Or indeed anywhere. Where could any woman thrive?”
“Pitoria is not Brigant and Tzsayn is not Aloysius.” Her mother came to Catherine and stroked her cheek. “And you are not me. Find your own way to make your life, Catherine. It will be a very different one from what you have here. I know you think my life is stifled, but I’ve made it the best I can to suit me. My advice is that from the start you make yours suit you. In Pitoria you will have many freedoms that you don’t have here, that I can never have. You will be able to travel, to leave the castle, to mix with other people.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“That is how Pitoria is.”
“Will I see you again, once I’m married?”
“You know your father will never let me leave the castle. It’s taken all my power to get him to allow you to even ride out of the palace gates. My place is here, I accept that, and yours will be in Pitoria. I will miss you, Catherine.”
It was rare to hear emotion in the queen’s voice, but Catherine heard it then. Her mother kept her emotions as tightly controlled as Aloysius kept her life. Catherine yearned for freedom and wished her mother could experience it too. Wishing and yearning were one thing, doing was another.
“But how can I make my life suit me? I’ll have a few maids and a few dresses and nothing more. No power. No influence.”
“You are a princess, daughter of Aloysius of Brigant, and you will be wife of the future king of Pitoria. That is much. True, you will have no money, no land, but Queen Valeria started with just as little. She used the one thing that she could influence. Possibly the most important thing.”
“Oh? Are you going to tell me what this thing is?”
“The people.”
Catherine felt a little deflated. She remembered the horror of the crowd at Lady Anne’s execution, baying for blood and shouting Aloysius’s name.
“Valeria won the people over. People loved her, sent her gifts, swore their loyalty. The people wanted to see her, wanted to bathe in her presence. They loved her.”
That certainly sounded much better than people shouting for an execution.
“Do you think I can do that?”
“You can achieve much, Catherine. It’s how badly you want it. How hard you’ll work for it.”
“I’d certainly prefer it to being locked up in a castle for the rest of my life.” Catherine immediately felt guilty for voicing her ideas too strongly, but her mother smiled.
“Then you should plan for it. And start as soon as you reach Pitoria. I’ll do what I can to help you prepare.”
With a soft knock, a servant entered, bearing a scroll for the queen.
“From Prince Boris, Your Majesty.”
Catherine felt sick. Was this about Ambrose? Had he been caught? She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Does it concern me?”
“It does.” The queen looked at her. “You have your marching orders.”
Marching orders?