The Masked Princess Bound To The King She Hates

The council room was colder than the rest of the palace--not physically, but in feeling.

The stone walls were high, and hung with banners heavy with history and power. Long, dark wooden table ran through the middle, and men sat there not easily to be frightened--not even by kings.

King Augustine was at the end of the table.

Silent.

Observing.

Waiting.

Even before his entrance murmurs filled the room, and they did not abate when he entered.

"She conceals her face."

Such a thing has never been done by any queen of this kingdom.

"It is... unnatural."

Augustine replied not at all.

His eyes swept slowly over the council, and caught each face, each expression, each hidden purpose. Others were just curious.

Others were not.

Then a voice, higher than all the others--calm, commanding, and certainly dangerous.

"Your Majesty."

It was Lord Ferguson.

One of the most ancient of the council--and one of the most difficult to quiet.

Augustine turned and looked at him.

Ferguson bowed his head a little, a i of deference which was rather a sign of duty than of affection.

We know what is going on with your marriage, he started, his voice placid, but the court is growing impatient.

He paused deliberately.

A queen who does not show her face begs to be questioned.

Silence followed.

Heavy.

Unforgiving.

Augustine sat up a little in his chair, and his face was indescribable.

And when, he said to himself, does pain prescribe power?

His words fell lightly--yet with impact.

No one spoke.

Still, Ferguson continued.

Perception makes loyalty, Your Majesty, with respect. Should the people start to distrust their queen--"

"They will not."

The break was instantaneous.

Final.

The room stilled.

All eyes were on the king.

Augustine again touched his fingers on the armrest.

I have seen my queen, said he.

The statement was simple.

Deliberate.

"There is nothing to question."

There was a wave of the council. Some nodded.

Others exchanged glances.

All were not convinced.

Ferguson looked a little keenerly.

"As you say, Your Majesty."

But skepticism was under his word.

Augustine noticed.

Of course he did.

Silence stretched.

Then-

My word ought to be clear enough.

No one argued.

But the strain was there.

Alive.

Unsettled.

You have seen her face, another council-member said cautiously. Surely, Your Majesty, there was nothing wrong in bringing her to the court.

Augustine turned his eyes to him.

My queen is no spectacle.

The words were serene.

Firm.

Ferguson bent forward a little.

Naturally not, he replied. "But transparency builds trust."

Pressure.

Subtle.

Relentless.

Augustine stood on his feet.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The room was quieted only by the movement.

My queen hath no explanations to make to this council, he said.

His gaze hardened.

"Nor do I."

No one spoke.

No one challenged him.

Since at that time, it was not debate that filled the room--

It was control.

Without another word, Augustine turned and walked out.

The doors shut behind him with a last silence.

The passageway was quiet.

Too silent.

Augustine strolled slowly on, without haste, his face unaltered.

But his mind was not.

He had not to listen to the remainder of the council.

He had already caught sight of them.

Doubt.

Suspicion.

Calculation.

It was only a matter of time.

"My King."

The voice was behind him.

Augustine stopped.

Slowly, he turned.

A servant was a few steps away, her head was bent down, her hands clasped together in front of her. She was indecisive, as though she was not quite sure that she ought to have spoken at all.

"What is it?" Augustine asked.

His voice was calm.

But it had substance.My King. there is talk.

The servant swallowed.

"My King... there is talk."

Of course there was.

Everybody talks, he said.

But she shook her head.

"This is different."

That stilled him.

"Speak."

The servant raised her eyes only a little--not so much as to show the fear in her eyes.

They are saying, she said, and then, with difficulty, uttered the words, That Your Majesty has not really seen the queen.

Silence followed.

Still.

Sharp.

Augustine made no motion.

"They believe." she continued, her voice lowering, ".that what was said in the council was not. the truth."

The words hung in the air amid them.

Dangerous.

Unavoidable.

Nothing happened a moment.

Then Augustine made a gradual step.

The servant bowed her head once more.

Who is talking? he said.

His voice did not change.

But something under it did.

The servant hesitated.

It is spreading, my King, it is spreading, said she. Among the servants. and more.

Not one voice.

Not one source.

That made it worse.

Gossip might be suppressed.

Doubt could not.

Augustine made no reply.

Then-

"Let them talk."

The words were silent.

Controlled.

But final.

The servant looked a little surprised.

Augustine turned his eyes away, and now was far, and reckoning.

Because this-

This was no longer what was true.

It was concerning what would be thought.

Go back to work, he said.

"Yes, my King."

She curtsied and went.

Augustine stayed where he was.

Still.

Thinking.

He had been questioned by the council.

The palace was now starting to question him.

And soon-

The kingdom would be the successor.

There was a slight, hardly noticeable change in his face.

Not anger.

Not concern.

Something sharper.

Something more dangerous.

Since they thought he had told a lie--

Then he would choose what truth substituted it.