Royal servants ushered Issylte to her father, who was resplendent in his dark green tunic, his cloak of white ermine, and his golden crown embedded with the same emeralds and diamonds that embellished her own coronet. He sat regally upon on his throne amidst an array of courtiers whose gowns and tunics were adorned with fine silks and emblazoned with the various coats of arms of their respective territories. All eyes were upon her as she executed a wobbly curtsey before the bemused and twinkling eyes of her royal father.
“Greetings, daughter. I am most pleased to have you here with me as we welcome my betrothed.”
King Donnchadh’s hazel eyes shone with approval as Issylte took her place at his right side.Brangien must be bursting with pride, Issylte thought, for her father seemed pleased withher appearance—and performance. She breathed a sigh of relief upon her small throne, wiping her drenched palms along the sides of her gown, grateful that the dark green color would hide the sweat.
The trumpets blared once again as the herald announced the arrival of the royal court of Scotland.
“His Majesty, King Griogair of Scotland, and her Royal Highness, the Princess Morag.”
Issylte’s stomach lurched, and her mouth went dry, as the royal family of Scotland regally entered the reception hall, bowing their heads in deference to King Donnchadh of Ireland.
Judging by his silver hair and beard, and the age lines which creased his craggy face, Issylte guessed that King Griogair was about twenty years older than her father. He was rather stout, yet tall, and addressed her father warmly.
“Greetings, King Donnchadh! It has been many years since I have been to Castle Connaught. You look well, Donnchadh. Your palace has been lavishly decorated for the wedding of my daughter. I am most pleased.”
King Griogair bowed his head to Issylte’s father, clasping his arm in greeting. He straightened, offering his hand to the dark-haired beauty behind him.
“Allow me to present my daughter, the Princess Morag.”
Her father’s face beamed in admiration as he beheld the exquisite beauty of his betrothed. A bitter wave of jealousy washed over Issylte at the unmasked joy upon his face, as if all that mattered was his utterly beguiling bride.
She couldn’t deny that her future stepmother was beautiful. Princess Morag was tall and slender, with lustrous, long black hair that graced her slim waist. Her eyes were like black obsidian, a stark contrast from her porcelain complexion. Issylte watched in morbid fascination as her future stepmother dipped into a low, regal bow before her intended husband, humblinghim with her rare beauty as she humbled herself before the handsome king of Ireland. A waft of fresh lavender perfumed the air.
“I am most honored to meet you, King Donnchadh. I hope you find me worthy of becoming yourqueen.”
His cheeks reddened with pleasure, her father greedily accepted the hand of his betrothed. Raising his intended to a stand, he fervently kissed Princess Morag’s hand and spoke, his voice breathless as an eager adolescent.
“Welcome to Castle Connaught, my queen.” Her father’s voice quavered with glee.
As if suddenly remembering he had a daughter, he turned to Issylte and offered his palm.
Her legs trembled; hundreds of butterflies fluttered in her chest. It was time. He now expected her to perform like a proper princess and gracefully curtsey before the future queen. In front ofhundredsof royal spectators examining her every move. Issylte held her breath and swallowed the lump in her throat. Sweat trickled down her palms.
“May I present my daughter, the Princess Issylte, whom the people of Ireland affectionately call ‘The Emerald Princess’.”
At her father’s gesture, Issylte rose unsteadily from her throne, smoothed her green velvet gown, and reluctantly placed her drenched palm into his hand. She approached her future stepmother, dutifully bowed her head, and lowered herself into a deep curtsey, all the while praying that she would not stumble and humiliate herself at this most crucial moment. She could feel the judgmental eyes of countless aristocrats and courtiers assessing the regal quality of herprincesslygrace. Or lack thereof.
“It is an immense honor and great pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” Issylte stammered, her voice quavering as much as herroiling stomach. She prayed she would not vomit on the future queen’s magnificent, sapphire-blue gown.
“Greetings, Princess Issylte,” the dark-haired beauty crooned. “You are indeed as lovely as I have been told. I trust that you will come to love me as your future stepmother. Andqueen.”
The glacial, imperial voice seeped into Issylte’s bones like a winter chill.
Her father’s betrothed displayed her elegant hand for Issylte to kiss.
Issylte brushed her lips against the icy hand of her future stepmother. An unpleasant shiver crept up her spine at the frigid touch. As the queen’s skeletal fingers tightly gripped her own, a tingling numbness inched up Issylte’s arm, as if her strength were being absorbed.
Issylte recoiled, withdrawing her hand as if frostbitten. She rose unsteadily to her feet on weakened legs.
The queen’s black eyes fixed upon her with the stark gaze of a predator. Exposed and vulnerable, her limbs quivering and her mouth dry, Issylte returned, shaken, to her father’s side.
Brangien flashed her a reassuring smile that did not reach her troubled eyes.
King Donnchadh escorted his magnificent bride to his left side as the King of Scotland completed his royal introductions.
“And now, allow me to present my daughter’s personal guard and duly sworn knight, theMorholt.”
An enormous warrior emerged from the entourage of heavily armed knights surrounding her father’s bride. Issylte had never seen such a giant of a man, who stood a whole head taller than the rest of the guards, his heavily muscled arms as large as the trunks of a tree. Fiery red hair extended well past his shoulders, braided in peaks like the pointed horns of a dragon. TheMorholt’s bushy red beard was also braided—two giant fangs protruding from his gruesome mouth.
