The Blue Prince

Gerulf found it hard to believe it was only his second morning in The Prince’s House. Yesterday, thanks to the constant barrage of people, had flowed like a slow stream, and now, waking in the chilly light of an early winter morning, he felt like he’d been there for months, not mere days.

He stirred and fed the fire and, as it gradually began to grow, he did his exercises, his sit-ups and press-ups, until his body was pleasantly sore. Once again, Zita brought him his food on a tray, smiling apologetically for not inviting him into the kitchen. He’d actually managed to get dressed before she’d appeared this morning, and so they exchanged a few small words of conversation before she had to rush away. As she went to leave, she suddenly gasped and turned back to him.

“Oh! I’d almost forgotten…Miss Marta, the assistant seamstress, she was here yesterday evening.”

“Yes?”

“She asked me to give you a message. They’ve prepared some things for you, as Armas told them there was a hurry. They need you to go and have the clothes fitted properly though. Can you go there for eleven o’clock?”

“Of course. Where is it?”

“In the main palace. Here, I’ll write you directions.”

Gerulf took paper and his stylus from the desk and placed them on the surface for her, then stood back and watched her scribble down a few lines. Once she had finished, he read through them and nodded.

“Is that clear?” she asked, worriedly.

“Yes, thank you. You’d be an asset to the Pathfinders’ Corps,” he replied. She looked at him with wide eyes for a second, then grinned and playfully slapped his forearm, letting out a peal of trilling laughter.

“Always joking me!” she cried happily, then swept out of the room, smiling. He’d hardly been joking; the directions she’d written were as clear as day, and even though he’d never seen the inside of the palace, he could already picture his path clearly.

Her handwriting though…no.

He locked the door to his room and walked from the Prince’s House through the passage to the stables, waving a greeting to Gostislav as he went by. The nearest door that led into the main palace did so through the scullery, and was a hundred yards away from the annex. The space between the two buildings seemed to gather the wind, and the chill of it cut through his clothes and into his flesh. He hoped that Armas’ messenger got back with his things soon; he could at least have his scarf.

The guards at the scullery door studied his face carefully, then allowed him inside and he found himself in a narrow passageway full of sound and steam. A scullery maid darted out of the doorway on one side of the passageway and spared him a curious glance before opening a door on the other side and disappearing into the racket within. A glance at Zita’s note kept him heading along the passageway until it opened out, large doorways leading to the vast kitchens and the havoc within. Gerulf hurried on.

Through an open hall which was, he supposed, where the staff ate, then through an arch and up a tight spiral staircase. Two stories later, including several seconds spent crushed into an alcove halfway up when a couple of maids walked down the staircase past him, the stairs opened out onto a small, square hallway. The double doors ahead of him had round, stained glass windows set in their upper halves, which spilled coloured light onto the floorboards.

He knocked. The sound of quiet voices from inside the room lulled for a moment, then one of the doors creaked open. It was Marta.

“You got my message, good. Please come in, Mr Gerulf.” She swung the door wider and waved him into the room. The seamstresses work room was roughly U-shaped, wrapping around the hall and the top of the staircase. Huge windows spread across each external wall, flooding the room with clear light. At tables before each window, men and women sewed and cut, working with steady determination. The open space in the centre of the room was filled with mannequins on round pedestals, clad in garments in their final stages. Right in front of him was one in a grand evening dress, which was being carefully and painstakingly adorned with tiny crystal beads by a small crowd of seamstresses. It looked fit for a queen, which was likely just as well.

Marta allowed him a moment to take stock, then politely steered him to one of the ends of the ‘U’, where a number of square curtained cubicles had been set up against the blank wall. One was open, and there was a small rack of shelves inside, full of folded garments. Marta picked up a wooden stool and ushered him into the cubicle.

There’s three suits for you there sir, please put on the first one, just trousers and shirt for now, then call me in. I’ll fit all the items a few at a time.”

“Which one should I put on first?” Gerulf asked. He’d never had tailored clothes before; it was rather disquieting to think of a person paying such close attention to his appearance all of a sudden. Marta shooed him into the cubicle, rolling her eyes a little, then pulled the curtain across behind him. Gerulf sighed and took off his jacket and shirt, then looked at the clothes on the shelf.

All of it was blue.

*

Nearly two hours later, he was getting sick of blue. And also of holding his arms out like a scarecrow. Marta was perfectly pleasant about it all, chatting amiably with him as she darted around him, measuring and stitching and pinning, but it didn’t stop him from being bored and twitchy. They were, at least, on the third suit now which was, as far as Gerulf was concerned, the best of the lot. The cut of the jacket was similar to that of his uniform and the trousers hung well around his legs, actually the right length for once. The other two suits had been…well, they’d included breeches. Very decorative breeches. Even Marta seemed to think he looked odd in them.

Marta finished with the shirt and picked up a waistcoat and he lowered his aching arms to pull it on, then stuck them back out again as she resumed fitting. She’d run out of things to chat about now and had started faintly humming to herself. Gerulf stifled a sigh.

His ears picked up on a conversation taking place not far from their cubicle and, out of boredom rather than any particular desire to eavesdrop, he began to half listen. Two women, one in her twenties and of a high class upbringing. Speaking quickly though, almost childishly. The other was a little older, more Gerulf’s age and spoke in elegant, cultured tones. Her accent was…familiar, but almost vanished underneath the intonations typical of place staff. She was from somewhere in the Vast Continent, he was sure of that at least. One of the Northern states, most likely, but not Irutha or Terutha, probably more Westerly…could she be Gimon? He paid attention to the vowels as she spoke, but was halted when the younger woman began gabbling excitedly about something and her companion faded into polite silence. If she was Gimon…Rin was a Gimon name…

With a suddenness that made him flinch, the curtain at the front of the cubicle was whisked to one side and a young woman appeared in the opening. Her clothing was rich and her eyes were bright and excited.

“Are you Mihai’s new attendant?” she asked happily, giving the last word a slightly lewd tone that Gerulf desperately hoped nobody else picked up.

Marta jumped down from the stool behind him, and the woman seemed to notice her for the first time.

“Oh! Were you doing something?”

Marta twittered a little and Gerulf was at a loss, until another woman approached them, a petite, stately woman dressed in long silk robes. “Marta,” she said in that delicate accent, “would you go and help with the beading on Her Majesty’s evening dress please.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Marta replied nervously, and scampered off. Gerulf lowered his arms.

“My name is Gerulf, Ma’am, and I’ve recently been accepted into the employ of his Majesty Prince Mihai,” he replied, feeling at a loss.

“Oh, you’re sweet!” she cried happily. “Mother was right!”

The older woman gently pushed her forwards into the cubicle and joined them before pulling the curtain across.

“My name is Rin, Mr Gerulf, and this is Miss Tynne, daughter of her Grace Lady Adara. I do hope you’ve settled into your new position well.”

“Thank you, Mistress Rin. It’s an honour to meet you both.”

“Sweet!” squeaked Miss Tynne again. “Just like Mother said, you speak like an old country gentleman!”

Gerulf grit his teeth a little and found himself looking into the eyes of Mistress Rin. She gave him the faintest smile, and placed her hand on Miss Tynne’s shoulder.

“We’ll leave you to your suit fitting, Mr Gerulf. Please let Marta-”

“Wait, wait! I want to talk to him,” Miss Tynne insisted, brushing her friend’s hand away with a playful swipe.

Rin said something quietly to her that Gerulf didn’t catch, and left the cubicle. Miss Tynne, he decided, favoured her father more than her mother. Not that she wasn’t pretty, but she had a boyish, hearty look about her. There was little sense of propriety about her, which probably endeared her to the palace staff. She smiled at him happily, and launched in.

“You know, Mihai and I have been friends since we were five years old – can you imagine! He was just as miserable then! – and I’ve never understood why he chose the attendants he did. But now you, well, you’re entirely different to the other ones of his men I’ve met. You actually speak to the servants, Marta said! Most of the rest of them thought ‘I’ve got a job serving a Prince, I’m more special than everyone else’ and it was so tiresome, I don’t even have words to describe how much they annoyed me. Mother too, she always said they did him more harm than good, despite how hard they might work for him. But she seems to like you. Does Mihai like you?”

The two must be close friends indeed; he’d not yet heard anyone talk about the Prince so casually.

“I can’t possibly say, Miss, but I endeavour to strike a fair relationship with His Majesty, as an employee.” Diplomatic. That would do.

“Oh you are just too sweet for words! I’m going to toddle off and see if I can have a look at Lady Brinne’s new riding outfit now, but first…” she ground to a halt and glanced over her shoulder, as if suddenly realising that the barrier between them and the rest of the room was simply a curtain. She beckoned him closer with a crooked finger, and he leaned down.

“The older Princes, Mihai’s brothers, have you met them yet?”

“No, Miss Tynne, I haven’t had that honour.”

She snorted. “Honour my Aunt Therese’s scanties!” she snapped. “They’re bullies, Mr Gerulf, and their favourite target is their little brother. The poor lamb, Mihai does nothing to deserve it. He doesn’t leave his house much these days, so they try and mess with his things instead, you understand?”

“Perfectly Miss. I thank you for the word of caution.”

She smiled at him fondly, wrinkling her little turned up nose, then turned and swept out of the cubicle without so much as a goodbye.

Not a typical courtier’s daughter, by any standard. Gerulf decided he rather liked her.

The older Princes, eh? It shouldn’t be too difficult to avoid them, he supposed, after all, they wouldn’t naturally cross his path as he had few reasons to enter the palace proper, and they even less reason to enter the Prince’s House. But then, he was quite noticeable, if they wanted to find him…

He was snapped out of his reverie when Marta re-entered, looking somewhat relieved. He offered her as pleasant a smile as he could, given that his arms still felt sore, and she was already waving at him to lift them up again.

’They try and mess with his things instead’, he considered. It seemed that that included him now.

*

Finally done with the clothes fitting and dressed in the more sedate of his new suits, Gerulf made his way back through the passageways of the palace towards the door that led to the annex courtyard. It was nearing lunch time, the back corridors of the palace even busier now, and the situation was made worse by some kind of incident going on in one of the passageways he needed to take. The floor seemed to be covered in soapy water from one side to the other, and several men and women were standing about looking astonished. He could only assume that, whatever had happened, he had just missed the actual event; thus far nobody seemed to have made a move to clear it up.

“Can I be of any help?” he offered to the nearest woman, a kitchen maid by the looks of her.

“Oh, no sir. We’ll sort it all out. But please, don’t try and walk down this way, we’ve had one take a spill already.” She gestured to a man on the other side of the puddle who was leaning against the wall, sopping wet and clutching weakly at his hip. Gerulf nodded and turned to go back into the larger hall he’d come from. Sadly, Zita’s directions were now useless to him. He’d have to find his own way out. Back in the hall, he saw a corridor that seemed to lead in the direction he needed, so somewhere along there there’d be a door to the outside. Nothing could be simpler.

Some thirty minutes later, by his reckoning, Gerulf emerged from one corridor into yet another hallway that he didn’t recognise. He was frustrated, getting on for angry, and he didn’t have anyone but himself to blame; why in hell hadn’t he asked somebody for directions when he’d been in a passageway full of people? He hadn’t seen another person for most of the time he’d been walking around and he couldn’t imagine where that army of servants had vanished to. Worse still, he was fairly sure by the décor and the breadth of the halls, that he’d walked into one of the residential parts of the palace. As a servant he shouldn’t be there without a real purpose, and as Prince Mihai’s servant he wasn’t likely to be welcome there anyway.

All of a sudden, a slamming door and loud voices around the corner announced the presence of two other men in one of the corridors off the little hall. Gerulf considered; he could hope it was servants, ask directions and get back to the Prince’s House quickly, or he could go through one of the doors which, he was fairly…not at all sure led back to the kitchens, and try to find somebody else to ask.

He decided to take the risk.

A moment later, two men of about his own age rounded the corner into the hall, talking happily together, and stopped short when they saw him.

“Hello, who’ve we here?” said one, a tall, powerful man, turned slightly to fat. He eyed Gerulf’s face carefully. “Would you be little Mihai’s new pet?”

“I may be sir,” Gerulf replied, trying to keep a polite tone to his voice, despite quietly fuming over ‘pet’. “May I know to whom I’m speaking?”

Both men, the big one and his smaller, swarthy companion, suddenly roared with laughter.

“You should watch what you ask of folk, Pet. You may very well be told that you are in the presence of somebody far above you,” crowed the bigger man. “My esteemed companion here is your master’s senior, His Majesty Prince Jaromil!” With an extravagant bow, he flourished his arms towards his companion, whose face Gerulf suddenly realised he recognised from posters. It was Jaromil, the second Prince!

Gerulf bowed politely to him, murmuring a brief salutation. They both chuckled at him.

“Ikaros,” said the Prince, “I do believe our little Mihai has dropped his standards once again with this new pet. This one appears to be damaged.” He stepped forward as he spoke and reached out to touch Gerulf’s scarred cheek with his fingertip. Ikaros sniggered. “It’s sad when a young man has to settle for scraps.”

Gerulf had met this type before, though it was hard to believe the behaviour from a Prince. The legacy officers who thought they were better than him, the boys from the village who had both parents, even though their families ignored them. He knew how to handle them.

“Pet? Your Majesty, I assure you, I’m quite human, despite my appearances.”

Play stupid, that was how to handle them.

Both men burst into laughter again, slapping one another’s shoulders and clutching at their bellies while they howled. Gerulf put a confused expression on his face. Finally the Prince got his breath back and, eyes bright, turned back to Gerulf.

“What’s you name, man?”

“I am Gerulf, your Majesty.”

“Gerulf?” Ikaros echoed. “What a dreadful provincial name! Can you believe we’ve got a Gerulf in the palace, Jaromil?”

“Hah! Well, he isn’t meant to be in the palace, is he. What are you doing here, Gerulf?”

“I have an errand, your Majesty.”

“Have you done it?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Well, get gone then. We’ve enough clutter in this place. I’m bored, Ikaros.”

The Prince’s crony taped a knuckle against his chin thoughtfully. “We could have a game of cards, see if the lads can win back any of their rubbish.”

“Perhaps,” replied the Prince, coolly, and the two of them turned, seemingly forgetting Gerulf as abruptly as they’d acknowledged him. They headed off into the maze of the Palace talking with childish sniggers about what they’d get up to that afternoon.

Gerulf felt…astonished. He couldn’t imagine a man more different to Prince Mihai than his brother. He also couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed. The royal family were supposed to be wise, benevolent rulers. What could have gone wrong with Jaromil? If that was, indeed, his normal behaviour.

He opened a door at random, and found himself looking down a short, wide corridor, into a huge, high room, awash with sunlight. Knowing he shouldn’t, but suddenly struck with curiosity, he walked through… and found himself in a place of legend; the Great Hall of the Nerim Palace.

The unsavoury confrontation with the Prince and his crony washed from his mind as his eyes took in the austere magnificence of the room that had seen a hundred generations of royalty take their vows of loyalty and servitude to the nation. One wall was all diamond-paned windows, letting the sun reach every corner of the massive hall and light the dais at the opposite end that held the royal throne. Gerulf gazed at it, amazed, oblivious to the mass of people that wandered through the great room, busy at their daily chores. Reverently, almost shyly, he walked further into the room, his footsteps softened by the thick carpet, his eyes dazzled by the gilding and crystal that decorated the place.

It was as beautiful as he’d always imagined.

He could remember being a little boy, sitting on his Grandfather’s knee, being told the news that the latest wagon train had brought to the village, about the palace and the royal family, about the great decisions they were making for the country and its people. He remembered listening in awe, wondering how one person could become so important, so vital, that the entire empire could be altered and changed from one day to the next on their whim. From the little rooms above their tavern in that tiny village, it had seemed impossible, too big a concept for his mind to fathom.

Here, in this room that reverberated with history and potential, it all felt so close.

On the opposite side of the room to the door where Gerulf had entered, a grand, pillared archway led into another large room. And there, clearly visible through the arch, was the wise, patient face of King Guiscard himself. The official portrait was the depiction of the King as he first assumed the throne, a young and vital man back then, before the illness which had forced him to stay within the palace walls. It was the basis of every image used on coins, on posters, on herald signs…everywhere. But here, right here, was the original. It was so lifelike, so perfectly vibrant, he almost expected it to climb from its frame and walk away as he watched.

Gerulf realised he’d been staring with his mouth open only when a person crossing the hall behind him cleared their throat. He turned too slowly to apologise, as they’d already hurried off, and he was left to realise that he was standing directly between two doorways, blocking people’s natural path across the hall. He glanced around; nobody seemed to care that he was there. Practically everyone else in the room at this time of day seemed to be a fellow servant.

He walked into the portrait room.

It was cool inside, and dimly lit, to preserve the paintings he supposed. The walls to either side of the King’s official portrait were filled with paintings of his immediate family, all executed in the same delicate style and, presumably, the same hand. He remembered hearing that the Royal family kept a portrait artist employed at the palace. The other walls of the room were littered with smaller, but no less beautiful portraits of minor nobles, and those who’d won favour with the family.

It surprised him not at all that the official portrait of Prince Mihai was that of a toddler, wrapped in shawls in the arms of his nanny. So little could be seen of his face that Gerulf wouldn’t have known it for the Prince at all if he hadn’t already known his appearance.

Jaromil’s face stood out to him unpleasantly, the appearance and attitude of the teenager he’d been just as sneeringly self-important as it was today. And there was the oldest Prince, the heir of the throne, Prince Jarek. He looked a great deal like Jaromil, if rather more severe, almost austere. He supposed the expression should have made him look more like Mihai, but there was very little resemblance between the two.

Actually, Mihai didn’t look like Jaromil either.

Or, as he considered it, Her Majesty the Queen.

Or even the King.

And now Gerulf knew why Mihai was enclosed in the annex, why he could never hold a real position in the palace or even show his face to the public at large.

He wasn’t the King’s son.



Note: Thnk you once again to my great beta, Paradox13, and to all those of you who are reading and commenting. I know I'm a slow writer, and I'm really glad you're sticking with it.