The Princess of Cortova (7 page)

12

Black Queen/White Queen

MOLLY HAD SEEN THE
princess on three separate occasions, and she’d been a different person each time. In Westria, Elizabetta had been a grand lady, exotic and yet familiar in her sumptuous gown and jewels. Last night, at the dinner, her simple dress and manner had made her seem young and sweet, even more beautiful than before. Now, as she greeted Molly in a well-worn tunic not even as nice as the ones her slaves were wearing, her hair braided loosely in back, much of it escaping at the sides in wayward curls, her face glowing and her expression bright with expectation, Elizabetta was transformed yet again. Now she was Molly’s comfortable old friend—like Winifred, except that she was a princess, and beautiful.

The chessboard had been set up outside on the covered porch, where they could enjoy the garden as they played. They sat on gilded chairs on either side of the table, facing each other.

Molly had seen people play chess before. She even had a board of her own back at Barcliffe Manor. It had come with the estate (along with the books she couldn’t read and the instruments she couldn’t play). But none of the sets she’d seen in the past, even including Alaric’s, could compare with what lay before her now.

Everything white was made from ivory, and everything black was ebony. The pieces, which were uncommonly large, were like miniature statues, beautifully carved with all sorts of intricate details. One of them—a woman wearing a wimple and a crown—was seated on a throne. She leaned forward, her chin resting on her right palm, her left hand clasping her right elbow. You could see the folds of her robe and the embroidery on it. Even the back of her throne was intricately carved in a swirling pattern of leaves and vines. But what struck Molly in particular was the way you could almost
feel
her thinking—something very serious, very deep.

“These pieces are so beautiful,” she said, “it almost seems a shame to play with them.”

“Yes, they are beautiful,” the princess agreed. “And very old, as so many things in this palace are. But I assure you; they’re also quite fun to play with. Because they’re so lifelike, you come to feel a kind of sympathy for them. And as you move them about the board and give them adventures, you will rejoice at their triumphs and grieve when they fall.”

“I can see how that would be so.”

“Indeed. Shall we begin?”

“Yes, Your Highness. Please.”

The princess shot her one of those apparently false but disarming smiles, then chose a piece from the back row and held it up for Molly to see. It was a figure of a bearded man, also wearing a crown. He was seated, and he held a sword across his knees, the hilt in his right hand, his left touching the point of the blade. His eyes were wide, as if he were startled.

“This is the king,” the princess said. “If you lose your king, you lose the game.”

She set down the piece and took up the thoughtful lady who was also in the back row and who sat beside the king.

“And this, of course, is the queen. She’s the most powerful piece you have.”

“But why would the queen be more powerful than the king? It isn’t that way in real life.” Then Molly remembered her manners and added, “Your Royal Highness.”

“Oh, please! We’re not at court, and I’d hoped we could be friends. Call me Betta.”

Molly resisted a strong inclination to believe that the princess was sincere.

“It would be an honor,” she said.

“And in return, may I call you Marguerite?”

“You can call me whatever you like, but I’d rather you called me Molly.”

“Is that how King Alaric addresses you?”

“Yes. Marguerite is the name I was given at birth, but I’m Molly to my friends.”

“It suits you better, I agree. Now then, Molly, to answer your question, I’m not exactly sure why it’s so. But I imagine the king is slow and deliberate because he’s so busy, weighed down by his many responsibilities. And wherever he goes he has to take his court, and his guards, and his servants with him. His life is restricted by his greatness. Whereas the queen, well, we ladies are light on our feet, clever, and quick.” She gave Molly a quick little grin. “We can work secretly, behind the scenes.”

“Ah.”

“Now, in keeping with the personalities of the pieces, each one moves in a different way. Our poor king can only move one square at a time, though at least he can move in any direction he wants. But clearly he needs protecting.”

“And the queen?”

“She can move as many squares as she wants and in any direction. That’s why she’s so powerful.”

Molly nodded.

“Now, here’s your bishop—see, he’s wearing his miter, and holding his pastoral staff, and giving the sign of blessing? We each have two of them—only the king and queen are single pieces. And, like the queen, the bishops can go as far as they want—but only on the diagonal. Like this, across the corners of the squares. So we ladies are still superior.

“I know it’s a lot to remember, Molly, but you’ll catch on pretty quickly. And once you’ve learned, we can play every day—if you’re willing.”

Molly wondered just how long the princess thought they’d be staying in Cortova. Even with Reynard thrown into the mix, the negotiations shouldn’t take more than a week. So was Betta saying, in a very guarded manner, that they would have years and years to play chess—after she had married Alaric and become queen of Westria?

“What about your ladies of the court? Don’t any of them play chess?”

She shrugged. “A few. But they always let me win because they think that’s what I want. And they’re not what you’d call ‘companions.’ They’re— Well, I have the feeling you know exactly what court ladies are.”

Molly blinked. What did she mean by that?

“I’m a very good judge of character,” the princess said, answering her unspoken question, “in case you were wondering how I knew. And I can plainly see that you’re neither silly nor shallow. You’re tough, and you’re wise, and you’re interesting. That’s why I want you for my friend.”

Molly was momentarily speechless. Were they still playing Gonzalo’s game? Finally she stammered out the best reply she could manage, which also happened to be the truth. “I am overcome,” she said.

“Well, you shouldn’t be. I don’t give my affections lightly, and I never say things I don’t mean. If I have chosen to like and trust you, that’s because I think you deserve it.”

These words were so flattering that Molly really wanted to believe them. What’s more, her instincts kept leading her on—urging her to return Betta’s trust, to believe that the princess really wanted to be her friend, that she truly never said things she didn’t mean, and that she posed no danger to Alaric.

Just then, as if in support of Molly’s intuition, the cat came strolling into the atrium. He stopped and stared at Molly as he’d done the night before, then leaped onto Betta’s lap, landing so heavily he made her gasp.

“Goodness but you’re a monster,” the princess said, scooting back her chair to give him a bit more room and waiting till he’d settled himself. “This is Leondas,” she said. “He’s adopted me, and everyone thinks that’s very funny. He’s such a common, ugly old cat, you know, and so extremely large.”

“We’ve met, actually.” Molly said. “In the garden, last night.”

“Do you like cats?”

“Yes. This one in particular.”

“Well, that’s a relief, because I’ve grown unaccountably fond of him.”

“It’s because he’s so interesting and wise. Probably tough as well.”

Elizabetta laughed. “I knew I was right about you,” she said. “Now pay attention. Your lesson isn’t over yet. The next piece—I’ll bet you can guess.”

Molly studied it. The figure wore a helmet, carried a spear, and rode a very tiny horse. “He’s a knight,” Molly said, delighted. “A funny little knight.”

“Exactly so. And like the bishop, you have two of them. But unlike the bishop, who’s such a pious, proper sort of fellow—everything done according to the rules of doctrine—our knight must adapt himself to the constantly changing conditions of battle. So he never goes
straight at
anything; he moves in devious ways: one step forward and two to the side, or two steps forward and one to the side—in any direction. He can even leap over other pieces so long as he ends up on an empty square. See—like this. Or this. Or this. Understand?”

“Yes. I do.”

“That’s good, because if people are going to throw up their hands and say chess is too impossibly hard, you usually lose them with the knight.”

A swallow darted in just then. They looked up and watched as it disappeared into the tangle of vines that had grown up the columns and along the beams of the atrium roof. Leondas watched it, too, with hunter’s eyes.

“How long have you known King Alaric?” the princess asked.

Molly didn’t quite know what to make of this sudden and direct change of subjects; but since it concerned Alaric, she went on the alert.

“Are you old friends?” Betta went on when Molly didn’t reply. “He seems to hold you in especially high regard.”

“We were children when we first met,” Molly said. (This was true, but far from the whole truth. At the time, Molly had been a servant and Alaric a prince. He’d been passing through the great hall and had happened to notice that she was staring at him, not looking humbly down at her feet as lowly retainers were supposed to do. He’d responded by telling her, quite unpleasantly, to mind who she looked at—which by no definition of the word really counted as “meeting.”) “But then he was sent away to Austlind. It was only after he came back that we became friends.”

The princess watched her intensely, like a hawk studying its prey. “You are very fond of him,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.

“He’s my king. And my friend.”

“I understand. And Lord Worthington? You are betrothed, I believe?”

She knew this, of course. It had been mentioned the night before.

“Yes. I have also known Tobias since I was a very little child.”

“A love match, then?” She smiled at that.

“Yes, Your Majesty. And he well deserves my love, for he is generous of heart, kind, clever, funny, and brave. He would give his life for me without a second thought.”

The princess sucked in breath. “You are very fortunate, then.”

“I am indeed.”

“With royal marriages . . . well, one seldom has choices in matters of the heart.”

Molly was blunt because she couldn’t help it. “Are you asking me if Alaric is someone you could love and trust?”

Another gasp and a smile of astonishment. “You
are
direct,” she said.

“Unspeakably rude, I’m afraid. Please accept my apology.”

“I will not, for none is owed. Of course I would like to know what sort of man he is, as he has come here asking for my hand—beyond the obvious fact that he is handsome and that he can be quite charming when he wishes.”

“Well, he is a great deal more than that—as I suspect you already know, as you are such a fine judge of character.”

“But aren’t we all a great deal more than we seem, each in our own different ways?”

“True.” Molly sat quietly for a while, struggling to capture the essence of Alaric. This was surely a chance to help his cause, and to do so honestly. And somehow, words seemed inadequate.

“I’m not a flowery speaker,” she began, “so forgive me if I am plain.”

“Plain is always preferable to flowery, I think.”

“That’s fortunate, then. If I had to choose one word to describe my king, I suppose I would have to say that he is
good
. But that’s too plain, even for me. And if I had to choose a second word, it would be
complicated.

“The path of Alaric’s life was never of his own choosing. He was a third son, so it was assumed he’d never rule. Nor would he inherit much. He’d have to make his own way in the world, as younger sons of all great and noble houses must. And like them, he only had two choices: he could enter the priesthood and become a bishop, or be trained as a knight and go to war. He didn’t want to do either one. So his parents sent him off to Austlind in hopes that his cousin Reynard could make a soldier out of a small, bookish boy who was none too fond of horses.

“I never saw him during that time, so I can’t say how he behaved; but I can guess that it was hard for him—out there in the practice yard day after day, training with swords and lances along with Reynard’s sons. Well, I’ll let you imagine it. They are very unlike, those boys and Alaric. He would have felt like a bird trapped under the sea.”

The princess smiled. “Yes,” she said.

“Then, unexpectedly, he became king. I needn’t tell you the circumstances, as you were there. He was only sixteen and had not been raised to carry such a burden of responsibility, nor did it come naturally to him. Yet I doubt there was ever a sovereign who tried more valiantly to learn than Alaric has and who put aside his personal hopes, and dreams, and desires more rigorously so he could focus his every thought on how best to govern his people.”

“Edmund said much the same of him—that Alaric was true to his ideals.”

“So he is. But it costs him, you know.” Molly touched her hand to her heart.

The princess, seeing this, did the same. “I understand you,” she said, “better perhaps than you might think. Alaric has lost his family. He has lost his freedom. And he has been given a task as difficult as it is important. And though he never wanted it, he has embraced it completely.”

Molly’s eyes narrowed as she studied the princess, who almost seemed to be talking about
herself. “Yes,” she said. “You have it exactly.”

“But under all that devotion to duty, there’s a little rebellious streak.”

Molly’s eyes widened now.

“It fights against that which is inevitable; it seeks a way around the wall that divides one part of himself from another. It yearns. It aches. But he keeps it packed away and only takes it out when he’s alone—or rarely,
very
rarely, when he is with someone he trusts. Then he shuts it up again, because he must.”

“Merciful God,” Molly whispered. “You are the same.”