Duty Bound
an excerpt

The bride sniffed once, quietly, and popped her thumb into her mouth. Today, her wedding day, she needed the comfort it gave her. No matter that she was now thought too old to need such childish things; she knew better. Few of her attendants agreed, but fortunately they were otherwise engaged in last-minute efforts to ensure the day went smoothly.

All the preparations had finally come to fruition; months of delicate negotiations concluded, the contracts drawn up and signed. Today, she would wed a man she’d met only once, the previous evening. He’d patted her head and called her ‘sweetheart’ while she’d looked up at him, blinking against the banked candlelight, and wondered who he was.

Silvea looked around in bewilderment. The usual routines of her life had been twisted out of all recognition these past few days. The visitors who’d interrupted the busy flow of life at the castle. The strange people who’d talked to her without warmth in their voices, who looked at her strangely when they thought she wasn’t watching them. The special clothes she had to wear …. her free hand wandered to one of the carved buttons adorning the neck of her dress. Chubby fingers started to twist it, just for something to do.

“Don’t touch!” The sharp tap on the back of her hand made her wail, the thumb popping from her open mouth. “Ah, now, don’t start! You can’t go before your husband with tears in your eyes, can you?” A handkerchief was applied with casual force; she blew her nose when told, then blew again, blinking at the stern face that looked down at her.

“Hmph.” The tall governess snorted, unimpressed by the girl’s penitent look. “Ridiculous, I call it. Wedding a three-year old and a grown man! How old is he going to be when she’s ripe for bedding?”

“Still young enough to get her with an heir!” The nurserymaid’s pert response and pleased smile owed much to the attentions of one of the husband’s entourage. She’d already made a tryst with him for later in the evening when the wedding celebrations would ensure that she wouldn’t have to look after the brat for that night, at least.

“Ah, my babby! Marryin’ you at your age! It’s a terrible shift when a wee girl has t’ be wed afore she can even use a needle!” The nurse dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief as she pressed a favourite toy into the little girl’s eager hand. The child grabbed one of the stuffed coney’s furry ears, rubbing the material between her fingers as she popped her thumb back into her mouth.

Her comfort was short-lived. “You can’t take *that* before the priest!” the governess hissed, swooping to pull the toy away. The girl held on, but the outcome of the unequal tussle was never in doubt. Her face puckered again as the toy was lifted away and she started to cry.

“Now then, what’s this? Tears? On her wedding day?” The familiar, deep voice gained instant respect. The waiting-women curtsied deeply as Ten’Andry’s Lord entered the nursery. Face screwed up, the girl raised her hands in a mute plea for comfort. Her father bent to pick her up; she buried her face against his neck, lace scratchy against her skin. He smelled familiar, warm: the scent of expensive perfume was heavy in her nostrils, the reassuring smell of home. Slowly, her sobs began to quiet. Coney appeared before her eyes; she snatched him close and sandwiched him between her body and her father, thumb unerringly finding her mouth again.

“Are you ready, then, my little one?” His whiskers tickled her cheeks and she giggled, wriggling, tears chased away by the unerring sense that everything was all right now her father was there. Everything would always be all right, if he was there. Always.

“Well, my precious Silvea, your husband awaits! Let’s get this handfasting over with so we can feast the evening away. Ah, surely no-one outshines this bride on her wedding day!” The little girl giggled again, patting her father’s oiled whiskers as he carried her carefully from the nursery. A pawn in the game of cities and castles she was, whisked away to marry a man who had already buried a wife half his age.

By the time of her third marriage, when her years numbered 12, she no longer went so trustingly.