Maia passed through the common room, which was crowded with servants preparing for the Whitsunday feast that would be held prior to the festival. She was grateful for the commotion, for it would help prevent others from noticing her. Even though Maia could no longer wear elegant gowns, even though she was forced to wear the gowns of the servants, she still earned sympathetic glances from visitors. From their pained looks, she knew that while they silently disagreed with her father’s decision to banish his wife, they would not speak up for her if it meant defying him.
This was her first Whitsunday since coming of age. For many years, she had imagined what it would be like. This was the one day when there were no longer any divisions by rank. Even the lowliest were permitted to attend the feast. Boys and girls were allowed to dance around the maypole together, holding hands as they spun around the tall pole festooned with flowers and ribbons. A princess could dance with a lowly shepherd boy. When a girl and boy turned fourteen, they were finally allowed to participate. It was a custom that had been passed down through the centuries. As Whitsunday approached, the girls would fret constantly about who would ask them to dance. The boys, on the other hand, would steel their courage and ask for dances they would otherwise never dare request. There was powerful symbolism in the ritual, she realized, and she had attended the festivals throughout her childhood. At her request, her father had taught her the dance when she was six. She had even seen her parents dance around the maypole together, and the memories were like clutching knives to her bosom. The pain in her stomach worsened, as it always did when she thought about the time before, and she knew she had to quiet her mind.
But how could she not remember? She had not seen her mother in years. This Whitsunday, her mother was in Muirwood Abbey, moored in some swamp-infested land full of gnats and bogs that no one cared enough to visit because it was still being erected. It was the most ancient abbey of the realm, yet other abbeys had been completed sooner. Why was that? Perhaps because the destruction had been more severe. It was said that only the Aldermaston’s kitchen had survived intact.
Maia imagined her mother in that kitchen. Alone. Grief stricken. Ailing. Maia had heard that her mother’s health was in jeopardy. Her father had sent the finest healers to treat her, for he did not want the suspicion of murder to tarnish his reputation further. What pained her more than anything about this Whitsunday was that she had begged Father to send her to Muirwood for the occasion. She had asked him to send half of his army, if necessary, to ensure she returned. Her father had laughed in her face and said that he could not trust half his army because they might be sympathetic enough to her mother’s plight to rise up in rebellion against him.
“Lady Maia!”
She whirled at the sound of the voice. She was just about to leave the common room for the stairwell when she spied Chancellor Walraven waving to her.
She brightened and approached him.
“I was going to the library,” he said. “Would you care to join me?”
“I would. I thought I might not see you until the festival this evening. How long have you been in Billerbeck Hundred?”
“A fortnight already,” Walraven said, smiling at her. He led the way up the stairs to the upper floor of another part of the castle and entered the library. The floor rushes smelled of mint. Everything had been freshly changed in anticipation of the king’s arrival.
It was midafternoon, but the light from the windows was still bright. Maia went to the glass and stared outside. She could see all the way to the village green, where the maypole stood proudly erect. A small crowd had gathered around it already. Another pang went through Maia’s stomach, and she clutched it with one hand.
“Your bowels still ail you?” the chancellor asked at her shoulder.
She nodded, seeing his reflection in the glass, his wild gray hair askew.
“I personally think it is because they make you wear those drab gray gowns,” he said with a hint of teasing. “It is the color of storm clouds. Not light puffy ones, but the dark thunderheads. They say it might rain this evening. The weather can be unpredictable in this Hundred.”
“Why did Father choose Billerbeck for the Whitsunday celebration?” She pressed her fingers against the glass, feeling the subtle ripples on its surface.
“You are a wise girl,” he replied meekly. “Why do you think?”
“I do not know him anymore,” she replied flatly, bitterly.
“You know him better than you are willing to admit. He is no longer the man you have fond memories of, child, though part of his old self still exists. I see it now and then. Let me teach you to tease out the answers you desire. That is the way of queens.” He folded his arms. “What does your father desire the most?”
“A divorce from my mother.”
“He married her according to the maston customs, though.”
“Yes, he did, by irrevocare sigil,” Maia said, staring at the billowing ribbons hanging off the maypole. Someone had tied or tacked the ends to the wood, yet still the ribbons twitched as if they longed to fly free.