CHAPTER TEN – WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 1473
Marion felt sick, though she knew not why. It might have been the rich food she had been fed over the last few weeks, or the terribly tight and fancy dresses she had been forced to wear. Maybe it was the stench that clung to the city, and many of its inhabitants. Or maybe, it was the nerves about the betrothal. All of these seemed to be likely options for the cause of her stomach malady, though Marion felt that the biggest contributor to her poor state of well-being was the company she had to keep.
Dickon was not with her. He had been told by his brother the King that he was to stay at Crosby Place, while Marion remained at Westminster. Alone, Marion found herself surrounded by a strange and unsavory group of individuals.
First, there was the foreigner. Before leaving Middleham, Dickon had informed Marion that her betrothed would not be present at the betrothal itself; rather, the German lord who had come to King Edward to discuss an alliance would be a stand-in. The man's name was Rudolf Hoffman, and he was perhaps the strangest man Marion had ever met. Full, broad and fairly plump, his head was coated in fuzzy brown curls. Watery blue eyes gazed down at her from above a hooked nose. He wore brightly colored tunics with shoes where the toes were pointed up slightly. But, despite this flamboyant (and slightly menacing) appearance, what really made him strange was his voice. Thickly laced with an accent that Marion had never before heard, his voice was rather high, almost like a woman's. He sounded a bit like the eunuchs (or "chiefs of the girls") that were sometimes seen in court to entertain people. Marion thought that such a thing was horrible, just because someone was different somehow, did not mean that they had to be a source of entertainment. Rudolph-the-not-eunuch-who-sounded-like-one followed Marion everywhere she went, always asking her questions, and writing down her answers.
"Ja, ja, I do to take back to your husband-to-be." he said.
Marion was unimpressed, especially when he said that he would not tell her anything about her betrothed, other than: "You will love him,". She did not know whether he meant to order her to love him, or if she genuinely would love him. This, along with his constant note-taking, vexed the girl to such an extent, she may have succumbed to a fit of anger. But Marion dared not, as it would surely displease her other company, who were just as unpleasant as the foreigner.
There were the King's children. He had so many that Marion had stopped trying to remember their names after the two sons. His three eldest children were all daughters, then there was his heir, Edward (named in honor of his father), and Richard (named in honor of Dickon, and the King's father who had also been named Richard). The oldest of King Edward's daughters was the worst, in Marion's opinion. Silly, spoiled, and very immature, Princess Elizabeth – called Beth for short – made Marion's stay at Westminster Palace a misery. She was a perfect mix of her parents, with the willowy grace and beauty of the Woodville Queen, and the King's rich coloring of gold hair, blue eyes, and ample blush upon her cheeks.
After having to put up with the King's spoiled, annoying children every day, there was the King himself. Dickon had told Marion many stories of his older brother, speaking fondly of the great warrior; tall, handsome, noble and incredibly brave. He could not have been more wrong. King Edward was indeed tall, but any semblance of the looks Dickon had given him in his stories had been washed away by years of drinking and whoring. Honour was lost on the fat man who sat heavily on the throne, and he had more bastards than Dickon, hardly any of them acknowledged or provided for, as Dickon had done for Katheryn and John. This man, with his blonde curls, and bright, piercing blue eyes and belly that looked to be three times his size, actively paraded his mistresses around court, in plain sight of everyone, including his wife.
His wife. Marion shuddered. Out of all of them, the foreigner, the royal children and the King, the King's wife was the worst person in Westminster. Tall, pale, almost ghostly, the woman wore her silver blonde hair loose, while malicious gray eyes watched all that occurred before her in the court. Her name was Elizabeth Woodville, and she had scared poor Marion half to death on her first day at Westminster.
"My wife," the King had said that day, as Marion and Dickon knelt before him. "Has suggested that you, Marion, are the best person to marry to the German Prince."
His wife makes decisions for him? Marion thought, baffled. This was not even the King's idea?
"May I ask, Your Grace... why me?" she had whispered, still keeping her head bowed in respect (and fear, though she would be loathe to admit it later on).
That was when the Queen had truly become scary.
"You ungrateful little bastard! What right have you to speak to your King in such a manner? What right have you to dare question his authority? None, so you will hold your tongue!"
Though she did not scream like Isolde and Kate, the venom in the Queen's voice had sent shivers down Marion's back, as a cold fist of dread gripped her heart. Ever since that day, Marion had never stopped feeling as if those foreboding silver eyes were watching her every move.
Marion was bathed and dressed by servants on the day of her betrothal. They called her "Lady", and though the use of a title that she did not deserve or even need bothered her greatly, Marion did not think to correct them. In all truth, she did not care, not this day. She had no desire to get into any more trouble – she had done enough of that over the last few weeks to last a lifetime.
Her birth month had come, though no one noticed – as usual. Marion could not help but wonder if this day – December 11 – was her birthday. Well, that aside; the day was now her betrothal day, no matter what it may or may not have been before.
She was dressed in a beautiful cream-colored gown, with delicate gold and silver embroidery along the hems of the neckline and sleeves. It contrasted starkly with her dull brown hair that hung loose around her elbows, and her wide, pale eyes. The dress put roses in her cheeks, so different form her usual pallor. Simply put, Marion Morton, the nobleman's bastard, looked like a true princess, though she felt nothing of the sort.
As she was escorted from her chambers to the Great Hall of Westminster Palace – by none other than the Queen – Marion had to fight down the panic that would bubble up inside her with a vengeance.
Fool, she scolded herself. You need not fear. This is merely the betrothal – the Prince is not even here!
Prince. How strange it was, the thought that she would be marrying a prince. She had only learned of this fact through the interpreter, when he had let slip a mention of it to the King as Marion stood at the back of the room, listening. Dickon had said he was a lord, but now, it seemed he was a prince. So Marion would not only be a lady, but a princess. Oh, how horrible fate could be.
Too soon for comfort, Marion stood before the King and Queen, bending over a large piece of parchment, quill in hand. She squinted, trying to read, to make sense of the contract before her. She could not. The words were too complicated for her to understand, and her understanding of written Latin was severely lacking. Sighing, the girl looked up to find the Queen's cold eyes on her.
"Well, go on girl." she said. "Rudolph has signed in stead of his charge. Now you do your part."
Resignedly, Marion gripped the quill with her right hand as the King commanded - she was not to write with her left hand, her normal hand, as it was considered to be wrong and unnatural - but no matter how hard she tried, her name still came out in a messy, uncultured scrawl. A scrawl that spoke of one wishing for nothing more than the choice to flee the room as fast as possible.
Marion Morton.