They think I am a child. They think I can’t possibly understand the intricacies of politics or the machinations of intrigue. They think that in time I will come to appreciate all the benefits of palace life and embrace the role I was born to fulfill.
They are fools.
I watch my mother as she plots and manipulates. I see her positioning her spies like chessmen, seeking to influence where she cannot command. I see the courtiers she permits to slip into her chambers and I hear the contempt in her voice when she gossips with her ladies about their intimate particulars. I know that she often weeps in the night, and sometimes she stands on the rampart and stares into the distance, watching some indescribable loss retreat even farther from her.
My mother is miserable and she uses her unhappiness like a flog on anyone who comes near. That includes the king, my father. He is her chosen victim. Even when her whip falls on others, it is his sins she punishes.
My father is no happier. His crown brings him no peace. His armies keep him awake more often than they keep him safe. His counselors whisper in his ear, then plot treason behind his back. His courtiers all seek favor, but offer only their obsequiousness in return. No matter where he turns, no matter who he consults, no one will speak simple truth to him for fear of bringing on his wrath. My father has never had a friend.
In the absence of my preoccupied parents, my life has been filled with nannies, tutors, companions and sycophants. I’ve been taught to read and write, to sew and play the flute, to dance and ride; but never to fight my own battles, trust my own instincts or earn my own keep. They all seek to mold me into a woman of good breeding and refined elegance, with no end in sight but pointless elegance and willingness to breed. If just once my tutors would allow me to shovel the stables, I might feel as if I’ve done something of real worth. But of course this would never be permitted.
Once while riding in the fields I managed to escape my escort. I rode hard and far until I encountered a small farmhouse on the banks of the river. An old woman sat on the porch smoking a small clay pipe. Her grizzled hair protruded wildly from under her cap and her eyes were sunk into the lines and creases of her face. A black cat curled in her lap, and one hand stroked the cat while the other cradled the pipe. As I road toward the ramshackle house, she scowled in my direction. Then waving me away with a harsh gesture of her pipe, she shouted, “Git!” There was no hint of recognition in her face, nothing personal in her dismissal. She simply didn’t want to be bothered by anyone or anything that fate brought to her door.
There I found my destiny. I want to be that old woman, alone, content with my life and full of scorn for the rest of the world. I want to wade barefoot through the mud to collect herbs for philters. I want the village women to creep up to my house under cover of night, seeking knowledge, healing, curses. I will cast spells and forecast weather. I will prophesy. I will wear dead leaves and sticks in my hair, but I will never wear a crown.