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The Princess Catarina of Naretna went to her marriage willingly.
Her younger brother Rylund stood behind her, with guards, but she walked freely to the altar, staring always forward at the stained glass sun rising behind the priest. Her elder brother Mykhal was dead, the youngest sent with an army to Herzog; her sentence was light in comparison. And she had no wish to stay in the capital under Rylund’s reign.
Once at the altar, she bowed to the priest, and then turned and bowed to her betrothed, who bowed stiffly, looking uncomfortable. But then, she had not been raised for this, as Catarina had.
However, Catarina had not seen even a portrait of her betrothed before, so she did stare a little, taking in Morgan of Givern’s height, her waving fawn-coloured hair, her brown eyes framed with lines from squinting, and her twice-broken nose. She wore her formal blue livery, with a knight’s gold epaulets and trim. Catarina smiled at her, gently, because Dame Morgan looked nervous and distrustful, and because the king her brother would not be able to see it. Dame Morgan’s expression twitched, and grew a little calmer.
The words of the service were unfamiliar—the uniting of two women was rare, and she had never seen it done. But she repeated her lines calmly and loudly. Dame Morgan’s voice was low and rasping, but she made no mistakes either. They raised their right hands, and placed them palm to palm to be bound together. It was awkward—had she been marrying a man, it would have been her right to his left, and easier. The priest was uncertain as well, but, though glancing nervously at the king, he managed it.
Then, still facing each other, she and Dame Morgan raised their joined hands and turned their heads to the audience, and heard the uneven, hesitant cheers.
***
They arrived at Givern Castle in Dame Morgan’s lands late that evening. The wedding feast had been cut almost insultingly short, but Catarina had expected that. Her brother wanted her out of his sight and his care, now that he had found a solution for her that would not result in the birth of other heirs to threaten him.
Dame Morgan was restless in the carriage, looking out the window, and Catarina wondered if she would prefer to be riding. She knew nothing of her wife, except that she had been a knight in the king’s service, and so was likely an only child; and that if she had charge of Givern Castle her father must be dead.
They were alone in the carriage—the one maid Catarina had been allowed rode in the second carriage with their baggage and guards. Dame Morgan did not speak, and neither did Catarina.
Givern was heavy stone, with narrow windows facing outward and crenellated towers. Catarina looked up at it as Dame Morgan handed her down from the carriage, and perhaps she did not entirely hide her thoughts, for Dame Morgan said, “There is a courtyard, within, with larger windows.”
“Indeed,” said Catarina, for she must be polite, and reply.
The servants were lined up in the bailey just inside the gates, and Catarina was introduced. They went down the line, nodding in response to each bow and welcome. At the end of the line of servants, just before the doors, the steward, who had preceded them, said, “The master bedrooms have been prepared for you, your graces.”
Dame Morgan looked startled. “Thank you,” she said, and the steward called a maid to show them the way, though Dame Morgan must have known where they were going.
Inside, once they were past the short defensive hallways, the castle was certainly brighter than it had looked from the outside. The stone walls were covered with tapestries and occasionally fine wood panelling, and the inner windows looking onto the courtyard were large and fully glazed. The courtyard’s gardens were dying from the early frosts, but they might look well in summer.
Up a staircase, the master suite had obviously just been cleaned and aired out. Catarina saw Dame Morgan gulp as they entered the master bedroom. “The lady of the manor’s room is through that door,” said the maid. “If it please you, which of you will be sleeping there?”
Catarina looked at her wife. “I should prefer it,” Dame Morgan said, to her surprise. Catarina nodded, however. The maid showed them the dressing rooms and the necessary, and then said she would have their trunks taken up and left.
“I shall leave you alone, your grace,” said Dame Morgan, looking at the door to her bedroom.
“Wait,” said Catarina. “We must grow to know each other—you are not my servant nor my jailer. Call me by name.” At least, she hoped Dame Morgan was not her jailer. Catarina had never heard of her before she was betrothed to her, and she had made sure she knew all Rylund’s cronies, little good that that had done her; she hoped that meant that Dame Morgan was new to politics, and not her brother’s creature.
“Catarina, then,” said Dame Morgan. “They will be preparing supper, below.”
“Then we shall go down together, when we have refreshed ourselves,” said Catarina, and Morgan gave her a small smile back.
***
The next day, Catarina went to the steward’s office. She met with the steward, the housekeeper, the butler, and the cook, and received the keys of the castle. She spoke to them of the servants, the state of the castle, any needs for repairs or more staff or direction. She drew up a week’s worth of menus and received inventories of food and wine, silver and plate. She had the steward show her around the entire castle, from the cellars to the towers. It was not large compared to any of the royal palaces, but managing it would occupy much of her time.
No one implied she should be elsewhere, or ordered her away to let Morgan manage things; and she grew more hopeful that this was not entirely captivity.
She learned a little of the production of the manor’s lands, but she thought that Morgan probably knew of that already, and would continue to keep it in her hands. She had seen Morgan near the barracks after breakfasting, and again as the steward showed her around the bailey, inside the curtain wall. She was speaking to the guards and soldiers of the castle, but she nodded at Catarina as they passed.
At supper Catarina talked of the castle, and asked a few questions that had come to her since seeing the head servants. Morgan hesitated over her answers, but spoke enough that Catarina did not feel shut out.
“I have not seen this castle since my father’s death,” Morgan added, without being asked, “and have not lived here since I entered the king’s service at sixteen. I must reaccustom myself to it.”
“Yes,” said Catarina. She looked at the lower tables, where the servants and guards and workers ate, some of them sneaking glances at their newly-arrived ladies. It was much smaller than she was used to, but otherwise mostly the same. But this position, alone at the high table, must be entirely different from a working knight’s view.
She thought, suddenly, of herself at sixteen, old enough to sit at her father’s table, with the splendour of the court below her, and the longing for a return to that feeling of security struck her chest and throbbed there. There had been no security in the months of chaos after her father’s death, as her brother fought for power.
But Morgan, she saw, looked down from the high table with only confusion and uncertainty.
***
It was at supper a week later that the steward came to Morgan and asked her when she intended to hold court. She stared at him as if she had no idea what he meant, and Catarina stared at her. She had also wondered at Morgan’s slowness in taking up the duties of the Lord, but she had thought there was some reason behind it, or that she simply had not seen Morgan’s preparations in the business of her own duties.
“When are courts normally held?” Catarina asked, when it became clear Morgan would not.
“The first of each month,” said the steward.
“Then,” said Morgan. “I can be ready for it the day after tomorrow.” The steward bowed and left the hall early.
“Had you not thought of it?” asked Catarina. Morgan shook her head.
“It had not occurred to me,” she said. “Catarina, I was not trained as the heir. I am a soldier, and that is all I have ever been. I had my duties, I knew them, and now I have been given another full set of them with no warning. How should I be a judge? How should I know anything about the needs of these people? I haven’t lived here in twenty years or more.”
“We will both judge,” said Catarina, and Morgan nodded with a sigh of relief. Catarina suddenly felt free; suddenly trusted fully in Morgan’s innocence of any plot. She was not sure it was logical, but she believed that Morgan was what she said she was, and that if her brother was spying on her it was not through her wife. As far as Morgan was concerned, Catarina held equal power in this castle, and these lands.
“Come sit with me after supper,” Catarina offered on a whim, “and we can speak of how my father held court.” Morgan nodded.
Catarina, uncertain of her position, had spent the evenings before now in her bedroom, sewing or going over the ways of this manor. She had no company there except the maid her brother had given her, whom she did not trust. Now, Morgan took her arm and said, “There is the Lady’s solar, upstairs.” Catarina nodded.
The steward had shown her the solar, of course. It looked onto the central courtyard, with large glazed windows in both one full wall and the ceiling. She could believe it had been a fine place for the lady of the manor to sit through the day, with her ladies in waiting and friends.
When she asked if Morgan had been there with her mother, however, Morgan shook her head. “My stepmothers,” she said. “None of my father’s wives lived long.” There was something in how Morgan spoke of her family that forbade questions, even here.
Catarina turned two chairs toward each other, and gestured Morgan to one. “You must have seen lords holding court before,” she began.
“I have,” said Morgan, “but only as a guard, or a symbol of the king’s power. Tell me how to listen as a lord.”
***
From Catarina’s point of view, the court session was not at all remarkable. It was much smaller than her father’s courts, and had far fewer cases to be decided; most of the village and some from farther away had come simply to see her and Morgan rather than because of any dilemma. The cases there were were simple matters of farming rights and family quarrels—if the villagers had weightier problems they were saving them until they had some idea how their new ladies would govern. She sat as she usually did during public events, and smiled at anyone she caught looking at her. Morgan seemed much less comfortable.
But she had the basic skills of presenting herself well, at least; she listened gravely to complaints and spoke formally and did not seem at all desperate when she turned to Catarina for advice. And somewhat to Catarina’s surprise, while they did not always agree, they did not argue. Morgan accepted Catarina’s attempts at compromises, but did not force them on her, did not insist on her own ideas.
Catarina remembered that Morgan was not a commander. She had a knight’s status, and she had lived as a man, but in the army she must have learned to obey, and maybe even to listen.
Afterward, once they were alone, Morgan sighed and slumped as if dropping a weight, and then drew herself back up again almost at once. "Well, that's over for the month," she said.
"They like you," said Catarina.
"They like us, maybe," said Morgan, looking surprised.
***
After that they often spent evenings together, Catarina embroidering or looking over accounts and Morgan reading. Catarina had not expected the castle to have much of a library, but one of Morgan’s ancestors must have collected books to be read for pleasure, as well as dry religious texts, and Morgan brought them up in the evenings.
Morgan kept her hair in a single braid during the day, sometimes with it pinned into a coil, but as she read she ran her fingers through it absentmindedly, and pulled strands of it loose from the rest. At last, often, she would pull enough of it free that she would put down her book and unbraid it entirely, so it lay across her shoulders in gleaming tawny waves.
Catarina sat in front of her embroidery frame, but instead of sewing she found herself watching Morgan’s hair in the firelight. At last she asked, “Why did you not cut your hair short?”
“It cushions a helm,” said Morgan, reaching for it self-consciously. “And I have few enough beauties without removing that one.”
Catarina blinked at her, thinking of what she had seen of her wife in the last two weeks: her strong arms, her kind eyes, her uncertainty but also her readiness to help and to learn. And yet she barely knew her, and realizing that it had only been two weeks she bent her head back to her embroidery frame.
"I know it," said Morgan, thinking perhaps that Catarina was too polite to agree out loud. "I don't care—I never wanted a man."
"I—" said Catarina. She cast about for something to say other than I think you lovely.
"It's almost why I'm here," said Morgan.
"You mean, why you were chosen to wed me?" Catarina asked. "Did you volunteer?” They had never before quite spoken of their marriage, or what had led to it.
“No,” said Morgan. “But there are few women sworn to service. Some of them have children, and even families, although it’s forbidden; many do not have land, if their fathers are still living. I think, once your brother had—” she paused.
“Had decided how he would dispose of me,” said Catarina. Morgan shook her head, but continued.
“I think he simply looked for the one with the best record, and no other ties, and lands where he could send us. I am not very well known or important, but I have served well, and been loyal, and never broke regulations.” She looked at the fire. “I was expecting to be given instructions of some kind, to watch you, but I received none. Just my discharge.”
They had both been dismissed, then, Catarina thought.
***
That night, Catarina lay awake for long hours. She had at first adjusted to the unfamiliar room quickly, used to royal processions and visits that resulted in frequent changes of sleeping quarters. It was lucky, for she would not ask her new maid for anything to help her sleep.
But that one night, her mind was restless as the rest of the castle quieted and the moon moved out of the square of her window. She thought of Morgan. Now, with the understanding of how much she had observed of her already, she had begun to itch to see more; to know everything that was there. It was not driven by the suspicion with which she had watched Morgan at first, but by something deeper.
Her mind rested so firmly on thoughts of her wife that at first she thought it was only more of the same when she heard her voice.
But it was Morgan’s voice, and Catarina sat up. She couldn’t make out any words, not through the wall between them, but the sound rose until suddenly, sharply, it cut off. Catarina rose from her bed and strode to the connecting door without thinking, and only paused a second before she knocked.
No one came, and, beginning to doubt the wisdom of it, she knocked again, louder.
Morgan opened the door, in her nightshirt. Her hair was loose; a candle lit it from behind her so it looked like the rays of the sun. “Catarina,” she said.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” said Catarina.
“No,” said Morgan, “I was already awake. Did I—was I too loud?”
“No. I have not slept yet tonight.”
They stood looking at one another for some seconds.
“Come into the light,” said Morgan, backing away from the door, and Catarina followed.
Morgan’s bedroom was only a little smaller than hers, and Catarina assumed that the chairs and vanity table and such things had been there before they had come, rather than having to be moved in afterwards as her own had. But Morgan gestured to the bed, and they sat on it side by side.
“Do you often have trouble sleeping?” Morgan asked.
“No. Not at all. It is only tonight.”
“Oh.” Morgan stared at the candle on the vanity. “I do.” Catarina reached for her, hesitated, and then laid her hand on her knee. “I fall asleep well enough, and then wake in the night. Since we came here, not before.”
It had been evident in her every action that Morgan had not wished or expected to return to her childhood home, but she had made her grim childhood clear more by her silences than her words. And yet she clearly cared for the people here, and they were certainly glad to see her, and the older servants occasionally reminisced of her with fondness.
She had loved being a knight. Was that it?
“Is it so very different?” Catarina asked.
Morgan shook her head. “It is not the differences,” she said. “I expected them. It is that it is so familiar here, although I have been gone for so long. I expected it to mean nothing to me by now." She glanced at Catarina. "You are young—I expected when I was chosen that you would be despondent from the change, and cast down, and instead you are so assured, so organized and ready with your duties, and I am lost and uncertain.”
“It is not a change, for me,” said Catarina. “I was chatelaine for my father as well. Givern is only smaller.” She yawned.
“I am keeping you awake,” said Morgan. Catarina shook her head—she didn’t want to leave, now.
“You must sleep as well,” she said.
Morgan looked at her, and then at her hand on her knee, and then said, to the candle flame, “Stay here?”
“Yes,” said Catarina, and she stood, and pulled the covers back. Morgan put out the candle, and they lay in bed together, the darkness closing over them.
Catarina thought, in the morning, that Morgan looked well-rested. And the next night, Morgan hesitated at the door to her room, and Catarina smiled and nodded at her. After her maid had departed, she joined Morgan in bed.
***
They heard the news from the capital Argosi rarely. Catarina was glad of that, though she knew that the reason for it was likely that her brother had forbidden formal messages to her. They heard the gossip of travellers, filtered through the village and the servants before it reached their ears. But they heard enough.
There were riots in the streets—that they heard about quickly, since their news came by way of common folk. Catarina winced when she heard of soldiers being sent to quiet them; Morgan shook her head.
“Soldiers are little use in city streets,” she said. “Less use when they don’t know the city. It will do little good.”
“But men will still die,” said Catarina, and Morgan nodded grimly.
There were rumours of murder and treason and plotting at court, both now and in the past—some of them far tamer than Catarina’s own suspicions. Some of them she assumed had their source at Rylund, but most of them were against him. They heard that he was cruel, tyrannical, promiscuous, illegitimate; that he had killed his older brother, or their father, or Catarina. They heard that the nobility was taking against him, either because they were foul traitors or because he was a murderer, and there were calls for the youngest prince to be recalled from Herzog, or for Catarina to return.
“Couldn’t you?” Morgan asked in the solar.
Catarina frowned. “I have given up any ambitions I had of playing politics.”
“Why?” asked Morgan. “Why didn’t you challenge him after your brother’s death? You are older than he, and he disinherited himself by his actions. You have the greater right. And you are beloved by the people—you always have been.”
Catarina shook her head. “I was mourning my father, as Mykhal prepared for his coronation. And then he died as well, and Rylund organized everything, very quickly.” She glanced around the room out of habit, but Morgan had said it first, and it was, after all, common knowledge. “I assume his speed was because he planned for Mykhal’s death. By the time I realized I could have stepped in, he was secure, and I was in his power. It was too late. I would die, and it would make no difference. I had no sword, and no defender.”
Morgan went to one knee, and took Catarina’s left hand. “You have one now.”