Nettle & Bone(12)
But there were not speeches. Instead, Vorling stepped back and said, “The godmother’s blessing,” and was silent. The courtiers, too, fell instantly quiet. The double door at the side of the great audience hall opened.
“The godmother of the royal house,” said the herald in the doorway, and then he, too, stepped aside and a figure in gray came through the door.
The godmother was old, very old, older than Marra knew a person could be. She did not have wrinkles any longer. Her skin had drawn tight across her skull, almost translucent. Marra could see the shadow of bones in her face, as if there were light streaming through her like stained glass and the bones were the lead between panes of skin.
She moved very slowly. Her spine was curved, but in a way that gave the impression of a scimitar blade rather than old age. She leaned on a black cane and her progress toward the cradle took many minutes, but not one of the courtiers, nor even the prince, showed the slightest trace of impatience.
It occurred to Marra that the king was not treated with half as much deference as the godmother.
She wore dove gray, but her skin was so pale that it looked almost black by contrast. She made her slow way to the cradle, and it was not until she lifted her hand that Marra noticed the exquisite layers of lace that draped her sleeves.
Marra herself had tried making lace once and never again. It was ruinously expensive. Even the prince and the highest ranked lords only had it at their cuffs and hems, and here was the godmother wearing enough to buy a palace.
The lace swayed as she pushed the curtains of the cradle open, and one shadow-bone hand rested on the air over the child’s head.
“This is my gift,” said the godmother. Her voice was not loud, but it was so silent that it carried to the far corners of the room. “I shall serve her as I have served all her line, my life bound to theirs. No foreign magic shall harm them. No enemy shall topple their throne. As it has been for all the children of the royal house, so shall it be for her, as long as I draw breath.”
The king bowed his head. The prince did as well. As the godmother turned and began to make her slow way to the door, the new princess of the Northern Kingdom began to cry.
Kania half turned as if to go to her, but the prince caught her arm and held it fast. A nursemaid hurried from the sidelines, her footsteps muffled on the carpet, and caught up the infant, hushing her with soft, frantic whispers.
Even at her own christening, she is not allowed to cry. Marra bowed her head so that no one would see her lips twitch. She, too, had been a princess once. And I do not know that I would wish it on you, niece, but I am only a youngest daughter dressed up as a nun, and no one cares what I think either way.
* * *
Returning to the convent was a relief. The white walls were restful and cool after the opulence of color. Marra had a head full of stitches and mangled a few bits of fabric trying to duplicate them all.
Several of the novices, still thinking her a bastard daughter, wanted to know all about the palace and the christening and the princess. Marra tried to answer but found herself with very little to say. Had the men all been very dashing? She didn’t think so. Had the women all been very beautiful? She remembered the dark circles under Kania’s eyes and the tightness of her lips. Had the prince been handsome? She truly had no idea. She tried to describe him and the only word she could come up with was short.
This was nothing the novices wanted to hear, and all the other things Marra could tell them were nothing she wanted to say aloud. Eventually they gave up asking, and both parties went away mutually disappointed.
The abbess had her own questions, which Marra was also mostly unable to answer. She was interested in Prince Vorling’s fairy godmother, but much more so in the priests and clerics that had attended. “Did you see Archbishop Lydean?”
Marra spread her hands helplessly. “I don’t know. Did I?”
“A young person,” said the abbess. “The youngest ever named archbishop. They would have been with the Archimandrite, a very old man in blue robes.”
Marra vaguely remembered the old man, who had been a blaze of cerulean in the crowd. Yes, she had seen him. He had coughed and coughed and looked like a shaking bit of sky.
“Ah!” said the abbess. “We have heard his health is not good. When he dies, Lydean will take the mitre and become Archimandrite, but there will be resistance because they are so young.”
“All right,” said Marra, conscious of politics swirling around her that had little to do with princesses.
The abbess patted her hand and went away again, and Marra tackled her new stitches and weeded the garden and let the convent’s quiet settle over her like a blanket against the cold.
Six months later, a letter from the queen mentioned that Kania was pregnant again, which troubled Marra more than she would admit. It seemed very fast, and of course, the queen would not have mentioned it unless she was several months along. Marra had not really thought you could get pregnant so swiftly after giving birth, but the Sister Apothecary said that it was possible.
Months slid by, Marra expecting to be summoned at any moment for the birth and christening, until one day she counted on her fingers and realized that Kania would be eleven months pregnant at the very least. She must have lost the child, Marra thought, or perhaps there never was one.
She knew more about miscarriages now than a princess probably should. Her friendship with the Sister Apothecary had continued, and because she could read and research and wrote with a steady hand, she found herself doing small chores for the other woman. And then one day a farmhand was hauled in on a door, screaming from the pain of his broken leg, and Marra found herself holding the lamp and handing the Sister bandages, acting as a second set of hands.