Britamund attempts to brood

Princesses were much like common girls in that they were often born in the small hours of the morning, just before dawn. Thus Britamund was able to calculate that she was now thirteen years, one day, and a few hours old. She would never be precisely thirteen again. She would not be able to do her birthday over. It had seemed a very important birthday, her thirteenth, but it had only turned out to be as unlucky as the number would seem to require.

Her father had not been there, first of all. No matter how busy the harvest, no matter how many or how urgent his duties as king, her father always made time for her and always made her feel special on her special day. Without her father, the day had already been that much more ordinary.

Queen Eadgith had been unwell: her baby could come any day now, and Lady Eadgith had been busy tending her. Lord Leofric was there, too, but his two nephews had come for the occasion, with the result that Britamund had not seen much of any of the three.

The Baron had come, but he had spent the day chatting with the Earl and the Countess. Sir Sigefrith was occupied with his farms and his baby, and Sir Malcolm with his elf wife, and Sir Brede was still catching up on his work now that his brother-​​in-​​law was away to give him some peace.

It seemed that Alred and his Duchess were the only people who truly remembered that Britamund’s birthday was not simply an occasion for the adults to gather. But the Duchess was too shy to command much of anything in the King’s castle, and Alred seemed hesitant to engage in any activities that might confine him in the same room as Leofric. Thus Britamund’s birthday dinner had been scarcely more than what any dinner with so many noble guests would require.

Meanwhile there had been the pretty Angharat of Thorhold, whom Britamund was beginning to find fascinating, but she had not stayed long before she had gone off to visit her pregnant sister in her new home. There had been Lord Brinstan as well, but Caedwulf and Selwyn had snatched him up at once to join them in hunting with their falcons.

There had been all of the children of the local nobility, but few of those were close to Britamund’s age. There were only the Duke’s daughters and her own sister, and the three younger girls had been occupied all afternoon putting to use the costumes they had contrived the week before to play out the story of Saint George and the Dragon.

However, this story had a cast of only three characters, and anyway Britamund thought she was growing a little old for such games of pretend. After all, she was now thirteen years, one day, and a few hours old.

But most disappointing of all had been Dunstan. She had thought that her thirteenth birthday must represent some milestone in her life, and she had expected him to recognize it. She did not think thirteen too young to expect a birthday kiss from her betrothed, for instance.

Now she thought she would have been satisfied with a little of his time. He had been absently polite with her, had spent most of the day following after the boys or the men, and he had simply disappeared after supper. She had only danced with Alred and Sir Baldwin, both of whom were too happily married to think of pretending to flirt with her, and with Lord Brinstan, who did not even know how to flirt.

It was not that Britamund was greatly interested in kissing and flirting. It simply bothered her to think that, if she was truly as pretty as everyone said she was, no one wanted to kiss her or flirt with her – not even the one boy who had every right to do so.

Princess Britamund had never been a girl to brood or to flee the company of others, but this morning she had felt the desire to sit in the solitude of her mother’s wild, overgrown garden.

Lately she felt that she was changing inside. She liked to think that she was growing more like her mother: a lover of solitude and wild places, mysterious and pensive, and even haunted. They were words that she had borrowed from Lady Gwynn’s ardent imagination, but they seemed to fit her memories of her mother. And she had some vague idea that this was the sort of woman a dreamful, poetic man such as Dunstan would love.

After a time she heard footsteps, and at first she hoped – or dreamed, perhaps – that it was Dunstan. But Dunstan was too thoughtful, too distracted to walk so boldly. Those steps were the deliberate yet careless steps of a young man who knew where he was going and scarcely noticed what he trod along the away. He was certainly not a young man who minded treading flowers, for she could smell the sweet odor of crushed woodruff even before he came into view.

“There you are, Brit!”

“Good morning, Brin.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing out here?”

“Only sitting.”

“I see that. Don’t you want to go for a ride?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed.

“You don’t know?” Lord Brinstan was confused. “Whenever I’m here we always go out for a ride first thing in the morning, if the weather’s fair. It looks like rain, mind, but I think it will hold off long enough for a ride.”

“I think we’ve gone out even when it wasn’t fair a few times,” she smiled.

“So! Let’s go.”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel like riding. Don’t you want to sit a while?”

In truth, this solitude business did not seem quite the thing for her, at least not for long.

“If you like,” he shrugged and sat himself down beside her. “For a while!” he warned.

“I like to sit in my mother’s garden,” she said, attempting a wistful air.

“Why don’t you clean this place up, in that case? What a mess!” he said and pulled up a flowering weed with a satisfying rip of hairy roots.

“Because she liked it that way!” Britamund cried. “I think it’s only just getting wild enough to have pleased her.”

Brinstan tossed the weed in a high arc into the reed-​​choked pond. “The important thing now is: does it please you?”

“I like it because she would have. And Caedwulf would never let me touch it. Anyway, it won’t be my garden forever.”

“True enough.”

“I suppose it will be Gwynn’s.”

“Have they been betrothed already? Why wasn’t I invited?”

“No, not yet. I’m certain they will be, though. And I’m certain they will invite you! Don’t worry.”

“Don’t forget!”

“I shall invite you even if everyone else forgets. Do you suddenly like parties now, or what?”

“I like to get down here to visit. My father seems to like new friends better than old these days. Thanks to Eada and her father. But I like old friends better. And when I’m Baron, the reign of Sir Osfrey will come to an end.”

Britamund sniffed scornfully.

“When I’m Baron, my only loyalty will be to your father. Or to Caedwulf if he’s king by then. That would be funny, though,” he laughed.

“You can come down more often now. Can’t you come alone? You’re thirteen.”

“Can’t you come up? You’re thirteen too, now.”

“I know, but I’m a girl.”

“Are you?” he laughed. “Sometimes I don’t notice, with you.”

“I’m surprised somebody noticed I’m thirteen,” she pouted.

“It was a rather crazy party, wasn’t it? We needed your father there to keep order. Nobody knew where anyone else was, most of the time.”

“I certainly didn’t know where Dunstan was.”

“Nobody was watching him, I know. But he’ll get an earful this morning. His father noticed he was gone after supper and started grumbling like Jupiter chewing over a few thunderbolts, preparatory to spitting them at a worthy target.”

“I’m certain I don’t want him to dance with me if he only does it because his father spits at him.”

“I only dance with you because my father spits at me.”

“I know, but he spits at you to make you dance with somebody.”

“You’re the only somebody I want to dance with. What would happen if I danced with Gwynn and she mistook me for a handsome prince?”

“Or if she thought you were an ugly frog, and kissed you to see whether you were a handsome prince underneath?”

“Or if I lost sight of her and squished her flat, because she’s so tiny and I’m so tall?”

“I know!”

Brinstan picked another weed and tossed it into the scummy water. “Can we go, Brit? It’s stinky over here.”

“Brinstan! This is my poor mother’s own garden!”

“I know, but it has all the worst smells of a swamp and a weedy garden combined into one unforgettable perfume.”

“That’s why I come here. You can sit right beside me and I can’t even smell the stench of you.”

“Oh! I thought perhaps it was to mask your own.”

“Perhaps that’s simply what you’re smelling, Brin.”

“You smell like swamp water and rotten sloes?”

“I thought it was because I come here so often, but perhaps it’s my natural scent.”

“You’re some kind of girl!” he laughed.

“I wish we could at least clear the pond,” she sighed. “I like the flowery smells, but the pond water is rank.”

“So why don’t you? You won’t be married for years yet.”

“Because this garden is like Caedwulf’s temple to our mother. We mayn’t touch anything.”

“Is that boy getting sentimental in his old age?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “He’s the only one who truly remembers her as she was when she was still well in her mind. I was only six when she died, and she was sick long before that.”

“He’s only a year older than you.”

“I know, but I think he does remember. Even when she was sick, I remember her being kind to us – to me and Caedwulf and Emmie, I mean. She was never very nice to Cubby, but I suppose we know why now.”

“That doesn’t really explain why she was cruel to him. One would expect her to be cruel to your father, but not to her son.”

“I think she was cruel to my father, too.”

“Obviously!”

“But she was sick, Brin. And, I’m not certain, but I don’t think she wanted to marry him at all.”

“I don’t know.”

“Everyone is always insisting that she did love him, ‘in her way’. But what does that mean, if it isn’t to say that she didn’t really love him?”

“I don’t know, Brit. You would have to ask your father.”

“I think perhaps she didn’t want to marry him, but her uncle the Abbot made her.”

“Perhaps.”

“What do you suppose happens if one marries a person one doesn’t love?”

“Hopefully not what happened to your father.”

“But mustn’t it be dreadful?”

“I don’t think so at all. Lots of people do it, and they learn to love each other later. If they’re wise. Or not sick. Anyway, Brit, we had better hope it isn’t dreadful. You’ll be marrying Dunstan in a few years, and I don’t know whom I shall marry, but I am certain my father will be picking her out for me. Well – unless you fall in love with Dunstan beforehand,” he laughed.

“And he with me.”

“I think that will prove to be the easy part,” he winked. “Come on, Princess Swamp-​​water-​​sloe-​​breath.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “If you’re planning to get all sentimental in your old age, I shall wish you would stay twelve forever.”

“And what about you? You’re thirteen too.”

“I? Sentimental?” he laughed. “Do you think I would get sentimental and not invite you?”

“You had better,” she warned.

“I shall remember, even if everyone else forgets.”