The Once Princess, Part 1

 Oie blanche, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Many tales have been told of Beatrix, Princess of Ravenspire, who lived for the first fifteen years of her life as the lowest peasant—daughter of no one, loved by nobody in particular, living off discarded cabbages in the gutter—until the momentous day when a royal messenger rode into her village with the pronouncement that she was, in fact, a long-lost daughter of the king. Born on the same day as a nursemaid’s child, she had been switched with the peasant child just an hour after her birth. Now the truth had been discovered, all would be set right, and Beatrix would one day inherit the whole kingdom. 

And those are wonderful tales. Unless you happen to be the nursemaid’s real child. Unless that was the momentous day you discovered you had no home and no family.

I am Petra, former Princess of Ravenspire, who lived for the first fifteen years of my life as the beloved daughter of the King and Queen in the most beautiful palace in the world. I was raised in luxury. I had tutors in every known language, instructors in art and music, a personal star-reader, teachers who specialized in mathematics and science—and of course, the arts of war of government. For I, an only child, was heir to the throne and would one day rule over our land. But all of that ended in a moment. 

I remember it was just daybreak, and streaks of burning pink crisscrossed the gray-blue sky as the birds began to sing. I stood on my balcony looking out over the grand forecourt where dozens of palace guards on horseback, festooned in their finest regalia, had ranged themselves in a semicircle facing the gravel drive where the gilded state carriage approached. I strained forward, trying to get a better look at the dark silhouette behind the window. It was too far away but drawing steadily nearer. From my perch, I saw the tops of the King and Queen’s heads as they descended the twenty steps from the palace doors to the gravel court. They were holding hands, and Mother—the Queen, rather—was leaning a little on the King’s arm. 

When the carriage halted just in front of the entrance and the footmen opened its door, the world fell still. Even the wind held its breath. Out of the carriage stepped a little foot, a lavish dress, and a light brown head. It was hard to distinguish the girl’s features, but she appeared small and unremarkable.

Then a chorus of trumpets exploded, and the king and queen rushed forward to embrace the girl. As for me, I ran back into my room, slamming the glass door behind me, and flung myself full length on the bed to bury my face in the pillows. It was not a dignified position for a royal lady—but by wrath and winze, I wasn’t royal anymore. 

I had only discovered that fact the night before, and even then, it hadn’t felt real. If you remember being a young person, you will recall how adults always seemed to think you had no idea what was going on around you. Of course, you noticed the furtive looks and hurried whispers, and even if you weren’t sure what events were afoot, you were well aware that something was in the wind, even when everyone was trying very hard to pretend otherwise. 

That had been the atmosphere in the palace for the last two weeks. I first noticed the change when Tilly—the maid who cleans my chamber—was late for her duties one morning. I had already risen and brushed and braided my hair by the time she arrived with my tea, and the teacups were jangling on the tray. The girl shook like a leaf, and her mouth was pressed into a tight line that I knew well. Tilly was rubbish at keeping secrets, and it was the most trying thing in the world for her to be stuck with one she dared not share. Servants know everything that goes on in a palace (usually before anyone else) and it was usually an easy thing for me to wheedle these mysteries out of Tilly (everything from birthday gifts to impending diplomatic visits), but this time she held fast. “No, milady, don’t ask me! I’d rather be boiled alive than tell, certain sure.”

My next hint was the strained way my tutors began behaving toward me. A few of them seemed more distracted and pensive than usual, to the point where my music instructress lost all track of the lesson and chided me for playing my lute when she thought we were studying conch tones. 

I did not see the king or queen nearly all that time, which was not unusual, except that the queen missed two of our regular walks, and a state dinner we were all to attend was canceled at the last minute. By the end of two weeks, I was staring down everyone around me, trying to read the news behind their eyes. I think I frightened a few ministers who were unlucky enough to cross my path. 

When the king finally summoned me, my curiosity was burning at a fever pitch. I hoped he would explain the strangeness, and yet I feared it. What could it all mean? Perhaps I was imagining that this mystery must relate to me . . . but it wasn’t my imagination. 

You have seen the profile of King Destrian on coins, but it hardly does him justice. A flat face with a jagged nose is all one can make from that, but I knew him as a real, round, full-blooded person. He was gigantically tall with broad shoulders, meaty hands, a rippling laugh, and black eyes that snapped with wit and good humor. As king, of course, he was very often occupied with great affairs, and he always appeared grand and solemn on public occasions. But there were plenty of times when he removed his court apparel and rolled on the floor with his favorite hunting dogs or snatched me up to spin me around and around in dizzy circles.  

He summoned me to his private chamber, a room I hadn't entered since my last birthday. He sat in his oldest and shabbiest chair, grasping a flagon. I remember thinking his face shockingly pale and much thinner than usual. Rather like the face on our coins. He did not speak to me, only nodded toward a small stool as he took a long drink. I sat, filling the silence by staring at my father, willing him to look at me. When he had drained the cup, he kept his eyes on it, absentmindedly tracing the rim with one finger. 

“You’re not a child anymore, are you, Petra?”

I thought about that for a moment. “No, Papa, I don’t think I am.”

“You were old enough two years ago to betroth to the prince of Procellarum, so why shouldn’t you be old enough for this?” He raised his gaze to meet mine. “Are you grown enough to know the truth, even if it is unpleasant? Even if it is unexpected?”

I sat taller and tried summoned up every ounce of regal bearing drilled into me by my etiquette tutor. “I have been trained to rule a nation and steer her through the tides of war, famine, and treachery. I hope I can receive a piece of unpleasant news.”

He grinned then and pushed the flagon aside. “Then I will not treat you like a child.” 

To Be Continued