Post by Queen Amedessa of Conté on Jun 15, 2007 1:09:52 GMT -5
"Hector of Queenscove. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
From her place kneeling on the ground, swarmed by four of her best hounds and patiently allowing them to sniff and lick her as they please, Amedessa glanced up at the duke's uncle, Hector. He was a wispy fellow with a pinched face and tight lips and sparse white hair. His skin was spotty and his eyes, behind rounded spectacles, were yellowed behind sagging lids. His garment was richly made and in the deep hues of Queenscove purple and green, accented by gold and decorated with the insigna of his station at court. Clasped neatly behind his back in their customary position, were his slim, trowel-shaped hands; hands whose fingertips bore indents of the hundreds of quills he had held in his lifetime in the pads.
This shrivelled, old-fashioned slip of a man was one of her father's chief advisors. As she gazed up at him, a slight crinkle forming in the crook of her nostril, she was reminded of how much she disliked the man. Since childhood, she had always thought of him as a weak-hearted man and oily in his conduct. Above all, she detested the ease with which he wheedled into her father's ear since the death of Enoch of Genlith. Enoch she had always admired and liked, and had always impressed upon her as an honest and stout man. But that was perhaps because he had been practically family to her throughout her entire life: Hector had always been separate, parasitic and unpleasant.
"Returning from a hunt, I presume?" he snivelled, the corner of his lip turning up in distaste. Hector remained undivided from the cultural standard that had evolved for women in the past century and a half: they were to be subservient to men, docile, modestly dressed, mannered, powdered and pretty. A woman, particularly a princess, who unabashedly hunted alongside young lords, wore a man's cap, allowed her cheeks to burn and her frock to dampen with sweat went entirely against his mode of thought.
"Naturally," Amedessa replied, forcing an amiable bounce into her voice, straightening up after placing an affectionate kiss on the snout of her favourite pooch. Brushing her gloved hands on the front of her hunting jacket, she removed her tricorn and tucked it under her arm. She sensed that Hector meant to have a word with her, whether she liked it or not.
"I see," Hector sneered, batting distastefully at a curious dog who had neared him. "I would have a word with your Highness."
"Of course, but please make it brisk. I would like to bathe before I meet Genlith for tea," she curtly accepted, knowing a report to her father of her being short with the advisor would not go unpunished. While she stood, she replaced sticky strands of hair from her brow to their place behind her ear, not expecting Hector to offer his elbow. Pursing a tight smile, she briefly bobbed a curtesy and accepted it.
"Your father is still adamant about entering a second marriage, as you well know, and this is an issue of disturbance among the Tortallan court. If your father does not remarry and produce a legitimate heir to the throne––" Hector began dryly after several paces, speaking as if he tasted bile on his tongue.
"Am I not considered a legitimate heir?" Indignant, Amedessa threw the older man a sharp look.
He returned it as if shocked by her 'audacity'. "You are a girl," he dismissed, "And neither girls nor women can adequately govern their own constitutions, let alone a monarchy. No female is an able wielder of power. They are mostly folly and shallow in their pursuits––"
"On what do you base this opinion? Our history is dappled by female figures who have proved their capabilities as leaders," the princess pressed. "The idea that women should confine themselves to more idle roles is impressed upon them by their husbands, fathers and brothers of a more recent era. Women are no less able to wield power than men, they only fail to realize this because they have been told they are in capable of doing so. They have been unjustly robbed of their voice by men who would not accept them as their equals. It is no wonder to me that they resort to the things that they do at court; their word is often deemed ridiculous, simply on the basis of their sex."
"Let us not stray into a debate, for that is not why I have singled you out to speak with you," he checked her mildly, abruptly ending their short stroll. "I, among others at Court, desire to know whom it is you will marry. We assure ourselves that you have considered this option, because as the eldest Conté succeeding your father, your consort is entitled to the powers of king. It is best that we are in favour of your union, so that all will go smoothly when the time comes."
Offended and dismayed, Amedessa removed her hand from his elbow. Turning to face him full, she told him: "Very well, I shall marry a weak man. A weak man who will not contest his powers, a man who will not dare cross my whim, so that I, the rightful, blood ruler, may reign over my kingdom. He will bear the offenses I do against him just as your wives bear yours. I will get my heirs from him, just as you get yours from the hapless women that wed you."
"With gravity do I ask you to not disrespect me thus and further beg you to answer me less foolishly than you just have, Amedessa. Whom will you marry?" Hector pressed, the spidery veins in his sallow face flushing with frustration and humiliation.
"I will not answer you, sir."
"Then you will marry the Duke of Genlith?"
"I have said that I will not answer you."
Hector stood, watching as the princess strode proudly away from him. Angrily, he called after her, but his call fell on deaf ears.
From her place kneeling on the ground, swarmed by four of her best hounds and patiently allowing them to sniff and lick her as they please, Amedessa glanced up at the duke's uncle, Hector. He was a wispy fellow with a pinched face and tight lips and sparse white hair. His skin was spotty and his eyes, behind rounded spectacles, were yellowed behind sagging lids. His garment was richly made and in the deep hues of Queenscove purple and green, accented by gold and decorated with the insigna of his station at court. Clasped neatly behind his back in their customary position, were his slim, trowel-shaped hands; hands whose fingertips bore indents of the hundreds of quills he had held in his lifetime in the pads.
This shrivelled, old-fashioned slip of a man was one of her father's chief advisors. As she gazed up at him, a slight crinkle forming in the crook of her nostril, she was reminded of how much she disliked the man. Since childhood, she had always thought of him as a weak-hearted man and oily in his conduct. Above all, she detested the ease with which he wheedled into her father's ear since the death of Enoch of Genlith. Enoch she had always admired and liked, and had always impressed upon her as an honest and stout man. But that was perhaps because he had been practically family to her throughout her entire life: Hector had always been separate, parasitic and unpleasant.
"Returning from a hunt, I presume?" he snivelled, the corner of his lip turning up in distaste. Hector remained undivided from the cultural standard that had evolved for women in the past century and a half: they were to be subservient to men, docile, modestly dressed, mannered, powdered and pretty. A woman, particularly a princess, who unabashedly hunted alongside young lords, wore a man's cap, allowed her cheeks to burn and her frock to dampen with sweat went entirely against his mode of thought.
"Naturally," Amedessa replied, forcing an amiable bounce into her voice, straightening up after placing an affectionate kiss on the snout of her favourite pooch. Brushing her gloved hands on the front of her hunting jacket, she removed her tricorn and tucked it under her arm. She sensed that Hector meant to have a word with her, whether she liked it or not.
"I see," Hector sneered, batting distastefully at a curious dog who had neared him. "I would have a word with your Highness."
"Of course, but please make it brisk. I would like to bathe before I meet Genlith for tea," she curtly accepted, knowing a report to her father of her being short with the advisor would not go unpunished. While she stood, she replaced sticky strands of hair from her brow to their place behind her ear, not expecting Hector to offer his elbow. Pursing a tight smile, she briefly bobbed a curtesy and accepted it.
"Your father is still adamant about entering a second marriage, as you well know, and this is an issue of disturbance among the Tortallan court. If your father does not remarry and produce a legitimate heir to the throne––" Hector began dryly after several paces, speaking as if he tasted bile on his tongue.
"Am I not considered a legitimate heir?" Indignant, Amedessa threw the older man a sharp look.
He returned it as if shocked by her 'audacity'. "You are a girl," he dismissed, "And neither girls nor women can adequately govern their own constitutions, let alone a monarchy. No female is an able wielder of power. They are mostly folly and shallow in their pursuits––"
"On what do you base this opinion? Our history is dappled by female figures who have proved their capabilities as leaders," the princess pressed. "The idea that women should confine themselves to more idle roles is impressed upon them by their husbands, fathers and brothers of a more recent era. Women are no less able to wield power than men, they only fail to realize this because they have been told they are in capable of doing so. They have been unjustly robbed of their voice by men who would not accept them as their equals. It is no wonder to me that they resort to the things that they do at court; their word is often deemed ridiculous, simply on the basis of their sex."
"Let us not stray into a debate, for that is not why I have singled you out to speak with you," he checked her mildly, abruptly ending their short stroll. "I, among others at Court, desire to know whom it is you will marry. We assure ourselves that you have considered this option, because as the eldest Conté succeeding your father, your consort is entitled to the powers of king. It is best that we are in favour of your union, so that all will go smoothly when the time comes."
Offended and dismayed, Amedessa removed her hand from his elbow. Turning to face him full, she told him: "Very well, I shall marry a weak man. A weak man who will not contest his powers, a man who will not dare cross my whim, so that I, the rightful, blood ruler, may reign over my kingdom. He will bear the offenses I do against him just as your wives bear yours. I will get my heirs from him, just as you get yours from the hapless women that wed you."
"With gravity do I ask you to not disrespect me thus and further beg you to answer me less foolishly than you just have, Amedessa. Whom will you marry?" Hector pressed, the spidery veins in his sallow face flushing with frustration and humiliation.
"I will not answer you, sir."
"Then you will marry the Duke of Genlith?"
"I have said that I will not answer you."
Hector stood, watching as the princess strode proudly away from him. Angrily, he called after her, but his call fell on deaf ears.