Chapter 12

"Father!" Henry burst back into the room, face red and eyes wide. "Father, what is this talk of my wedding Marguerite De Ghent?" King Francis merely ignored his son for a few moments - opting, instead, to focus his attention on the paperwork he seemed to be completing. Then he raised his head and acknowledged his son in a manner that seemed to indicate surprise.

"Henry, my boy, what are you doing here? Sit... do sit.."

Henry sat, waiting for his father to explain. King Francis bent back over his work, making a few changes before looking up at his son.

"Now, what did you wish to discuss?"

Henry glared at his father for a long moment, trying to recollect what he was thinking. Then he caught his breath.

"I am not marrying Marguerite De Ghent!"

The corner of Francis' mouth turned up in a deliberate smirk.

"What makes you say so?" He asked, with the air of one indulging a spoilt child.

"Because I do not love her." Henry replied. It was all he could think of. Francis sighed, all traces of his former jovial mood disappearing.

"Love! That is all you children think about! And what if you never find your true love? What of that, Henry, what of that?"

Henry met his father's angry gaze with a calm collected one that seemed to infuriate him even more.

"It does not matter. I have already found her."

Francis threw his hands up in despair, snorting incredulously. Sliding out off his chair, he stood up and paced the room furiously, trying to collect himself. Henry waited patiently, leaning against the old wooden door frame. Finally his father deigned to speak.

"Oh, is that so, Henry? Who is it this time? A servant? A slave? Oh, please do not tell me you've fallen in love with a foreign servant!"

"You tried to marry me off to a foreigner. How is this any different?" Henry asked, raising an eyebrow sceptically.

"So it is a foreign servant!" Francis looked horrified. "The cases were entirely different, Henry - how can you disgrace us so!"

"No, no!" Henry hastened to correct his mistake. "I do not love a foreign servant. But I do love."

Francis settled back down in his chair, his face a delightful study of relief and wariness.

"Well then, boy. Who do you love?"

"Someone who is not Marguerite De Ghent. I refuse to wed her - I will pick my own bride, thank you, sir." With that, Henry spun around and left - a complete contrast to his undignified entry. Francis stared after him in a daze, before slumping down on his desk.


Danielle sat in the room, half listening to the two women outside gossip. In, out... in, out... Her needle flashed in the dim light as she plunged in through the scarlet dress. She held it up, almost wistfully, against herself. It was a pretty gown - red with gold trimmings, but she couldn't help but think of her mother's silver gown. Sighing, she sat herself down again. There was a rustle and the seamstress - a thin bony lady entered.

"Have you finished the gown yet, Danielle?" She asked, a touch of kindness in her voice. For although she was, by nature, a harsh woman, she still had it in her to feel sympathy for this child.

"Nearly, ma'am." Danielle answered. "It is a fine gown."

The seamstress smiled indulgently, stroking the crimson clothlike a live thing.

"Thank you. I only wish my customers were as complementary as you."

"Hello? Hello!" A voice sounded through the thin partition. The seamstress nodded to Danielle and edged out."Finally!" The voice snapped. "What were you doing in there!"

"Overseeing the hemming of a gown, ma'am." The words were docile and polite enough, but the tone they were uttered in was icy-cold.

The customer huffed.

"Well, I need a gown."She - for it was surely a she - ordered.

"Again!" The seamstress sounded amazed. "But you bought one not two days ago!"

"Is it any of your concern?" The voice whined. "Besides, the Prince likes well-dressed girls." At those words, Danielle froze. She recognised that voice.

"Any specifications, ma'am?" The seamstress prodded, obviously trying to keep the irritation from her voice.

"Purple. Bright purple. And... a low neckline. And... in the latest style." Marguerite commanded. Danielle stifled a laugh tinged with bitterness.

"Where's your mother today, ma'am?" The seamstress' words knocked the laughter from Danielle. "Is she coming?"

"My mother? Of course she's coming! She's just at the other store - overseeing the size of my new pendant."

"Aah, how big is it to be, this time?"

"It is none of your concern. Have the gown ready by tomorrow evening." Danielle could hear the silken rustle as Marguerite's gown dragged across th floor as she flounced out.

"Tomorrow evening! Did you hear that Danielle?" The seamstress' voice was a mix of mirth and horror.

"Yes ma'am. Shall I lay this gown aside then?"

"I suppose. It shall have to be a horrible concoction, just the way the De Ghent's like it. Bright purple, Danielle - a full length bright purple gown!"

"I should imagine the Prince will be happy in his choice of bride indeed!" Danielle's eyes sparkled mischevously, veiling her mixed emotions behind.

"Do you honestly think the Prince will wed her?" The seamstress mused. "I should have imagine that a grown man should have had more taste than that."

"Well, he has been courting her most regularly."

"Regularly, perhaps, but sincerely? I doubt it." The seamstress pulled out a bright purple gown.

"Who are we to fathom the workings of the monarch-to-be's mind? We are but lowly peasants, after all." Danielle laughed, laying the crimson gown aside.