A Queen’s Marriage - Part 2
The Meeting
Continued from Part 1: The Praying (read here)
Her mother, the queen of the land, had long since perished in a failed childbirth, and her father, consort to the queen, had ruled until his daughter was sixteen. Then she had passed him in importance; she had ascended the throne, and as if he had only waited for that day, he too perished from the world.
Now there was the government - the many courtiers and councilors and citizens… so many who demanded so much, and such varied wishes, and all treated her as the benevolent goddess who could grant any heart’s desire.
How they curried her favor, and how they pouted when she forgot to smile, or nod, or give her hand in greeting.
There was no time for her heart, no time for her thoughts. She was a prisoner in a sea of faces.
“She was a prisoner in a sea of faces.”
Today, she sat upon her throne as upon a rock of refuge in the ocean, assailed by the pounding waves of questions and looks and simpers, and carefully, stoically, she kept her gaze straight ahead, looking neither to the right, nor to the left, nor into the eyes of any person.
“How haughty she is,” she overheard Lord Temple. “How like a cold goddess, unwilling to curry favor. Surely, she will freeze the heart of any man.”
His remarks were addressed to Duchess Roweena, who flirted with the bachelor, knowing he would gladly, had he been ten years younger, striven to be consul to the queen; and had, even yet, not entirely relinquished that hope. “I hear,” she simpered, “that they have brought a fair prospect to turn her majesty’s head. Surely, this prince will not fail to earn her attention.”
“All prospects have failed. Why think he to be any different?”
“He is said to be very enchanting in his eyes, and strong in his features. Plus, he is young and vivacious, with great power in his kingdom, and such traits are hard to ignore,” she sneered, reveling in the Lord’s carefully veiled envy.
The queen fingered the tip of her armchair, where it curved out beneath the padded brocade, carved into the beak of a hawk. It was the only movement she allowed herself, as her maids carefully readjusted her veil, and settled her shawl against the chill.
She knew nothing of this new prince, and cared nothing for him. She had met many young, handsome, powerful men, and not one had moved her. She agreed, with an inward ironic smile, with Lord Temple, as she overheard their conversation. This prince would be no different.
When they announced him, she focused her eyes, and centered her gaze respectfully upon his. She saw at once why he was called handsome, and his features were so admired, and carefully, she smiled and bent her head at his introduction. But she did not extend her hand.
She had learned that men were overeager to take extended hands - to touch the object of their desire, and the eagerness itself was enough to disgust her, to say nothing of their open hurt and disappointment, as if she had rejected them entirely by its withholding.
But this prince did not seem disappointed.
On the contrary, she found that he stood calmly before her, and bowed, as if he did not expect her to extend herself.
She was struck by such behavior, but more than that, she felt a slight panic, for she was struggling to look away, and return to her usual distant gaze. His eyes were holding her.
She could not, and even did not want, to look at anything else in the room, for these eyes held a world of varied interest, and there was an intensity in his gaze which she did not understand. A look, could it be, of the admiration of an equal? No man had ever looked thus upon her before.
He had yet to speak.
She wondered what he would sound like. Catching herself in such a thought, she started an internal rebuke, but her soul was deeply stirred, and she forgot to complete it.
Still, their eyes held. Still, he did not speak. It felt like an eternity passed
At last.
“It is an honor to meet you, your majesty. No report could describe you truthfully.”
Yes, she liked his voice, for it matched his eyes. It was just exactly how his eyes should have sounded.
“Thank you,” she rose with her usual deliberateness, and curtsied. “Welcome, prince, and please stay as long as you like.”
Then she departed with her handmaidens, and could hear Lord Temple, with his loud, obnoxious voice reverberating as the doors closed, that she had, once again, dismissed a fine sample of a man.
Part 3 - The Wooing
Image Art: I am currently unable to credit this artist, as I cannot find the credit for the painting online. I found the image on Pinterest, in relation to the Museum d’Orsay, but clicking on the image does not take me to the painting itself. If you know the artist, please let me know.