9 June, 1368. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten
Celia sat under a pavilion of golden coloured silk and tried to look attentive. Before her, a cavalcade of knights in dark grey armour paraded on identical white horses. Each knight tipped his lance deference as they passed her.
Celia wasn't particularly interested in the display but knew better than to look bored. The pageantry was only the start of a day crammed with glittering celebrations. So she knew her smile had to remain fixed firmly in place for hours yet.
It was Tobin's sixteenth birthday.
The entire court was expected to celebrate with gusto, to commemorate the birth of their precious only prince, the hope for Havietten's future.
And woe betide Celia if she didn't look anything but thrilled to be wed to such a miracle.
She smiled politely as a young knight placed his hand on his breastplate, over his heart, as his white steed trotted past. It was a fine line for her to tread. Smile too warmly and be accused of being a wanton, or worse, potentially unfaithful. Don't smile at all and be accused of ignoring chivalry and not showing respect to the royal army.
Celia felt like she was being set up for failure, no matter what she did.
Every breath she took was being watched and dissected by an avid, suspicious court who seemed determined to see her struggle.
Especially on a day like today. Celia was fairly sure Tobin would end up displeased with her, no matter what she did. He'd berate her tonight for sins real and imagined. He'd told her that morning how important his birthday events were.
"The eyes of the entire country will be on us today. Not to mention those of all the foreign ambassadors." Tobin had warned as the servants had put the finishing touches on his outfit. "Your behaviour needs to be nothing less than perfect. There have been doubts from day one about my marrying an Islian. I don't need you making things worse with careless actions."
It was a shame that perfection was such an unattainable goal, wasn't it?
Perhaps she was being unfair by judging her husband for his lavish birthday celebrations, Celia admitted. She peered at Tobin now, sitting next to her and nibbling on honeyed fruit as he watched the cavalcade with keen interest.
Celia had to concede that the yearly celebrations for her own father as Crown Prince Leo of Islia, had been every bit as extravagant.
She remembered her frustrations a child of being marched away to bed by her nursemaid. It always happened just when the evening banquets seemed to really be coming to life. There had been lively music and singing, delicious food and dancers whirling in an endless blur.
As Celia grew older, she was allowed to stay in the banquet hall later and later. She'd seen how her father had always been at the centre of everything, drinking and full of infectious energy. How he'd sung along to all the boisterous songs and danced until he complained about his feet aching.
Celia loved her father very much. He was great fun and loved to laugh, the foil to her reserved, serious mother. But as she grew older and started thinking about the nature of marriage, she'd often wondered how two such very different souls sorted together as husband and wife.
It had slowly dawned on her that while Prince Leo was a caring father, he probably wasn't the easiest husband.
She wondered if her own mother had often felt as lonely as Celia did in that moment, as if trapped within an invisible cage. Locked in place by the eyes of a court who watched her with rabid curiosity but no love.
Princess Violet had borne healthy sons and always behaved with perfect, icy elegance before her people. Yet the Islians did not love her and Celia had never really understood why not.
She wondered if that troubled her mother or if she genuinely didn't care. Unless she was able to ask her mother face to face though, the question would remain unanswered.
Celia had kicked herself many times over, for not having asked her mother more questions about the true nature of marriage. She'd arrived in Havietten woefully ignorant of the challenges facing her and a part of her was resentful about it.
Then again, until she'd met and gotten to know Tobin, she'd had no idea what questions she needed to even ask.
She glanced over at him again as he called something out to a passing row of knights. Her husband was wearing a breastplate also, made from the same gleaming pewter grey metal as his knights. The only difference was that Tobin's breastplate was decorated with the crest of the Royal House of Tralhamir - a rising sun over a green horizon.
Oh, and his breastplate was so large that two normal sized knights could probably fit inside it. That was probably the other important difference. Celia bit back a giggle, then made her expression solemn when Tobin flicked his gaze towards her.
She clenched her fists in reflex, which made her remember the lash on her palm. Fortunately, it had healed well. Only a stripe of shiny pink skin remained as a reminder.
No man can take your knowledge, but her can take your life and snuff you out like a taper.
The witch's warning echoed in Celia's head. Or perhaps she wasn't a witch at all, simply a victim of prejudice?
She hadn't breathed a word of what Thea had told her that day, not even to Sabine. But she found herself thinking about the old woman often.
When she'd stepped out of the healers' quarters that morning, she'd lied to Sabine and said that Master Noem didn't know anything about treating an empty womb, so he'd sent her away empty handed. Her friend had merely nodded in relief, seeming to accept the explanation at face value.
"It's probably for the best, Your Grace." Sabine had said that day. "When the time is right, I'm sure you'll bear a beautiful child. But these things can't be rushed."
Celia had forced herself to nod, thinking that if Sabine were the one being threatened by her husband, she'd probably be singing a different tune.