Twelve

 

Penelope finished tying the laces of Margareta's gown. "There," she breathed, standing back to admire her handiwork.

"She looks beautiful, Mama. Like a princess," six-year-old Melitta squealed, clapping her hands. "Can I be Harvest Queen, too, when I'm all grown up?"

"She's not the Harvest Queen, sweetheart," Penelope said. "The Harvest Queen wears gold, not blue. Lady Margareta is the Lady of Beacon Isle, and one day she'll be the Mistress of the whole island."

"What about me?" the child demanded.

Margareta couldn't hide her smile. When she was that age, she'd admired the village girls chosen to be Harvest Queens, and wished that some day she might be one of them. Now, she knew better. The girl chosen to lord it over her fellows at each Harvest Festival never lacked for partners when the dancing started, and she never failed to find a husband before the first winter snows. From the moment the blessed crown of flowers touched the Queen's head, she became the sole focus of every man present. For the blessing was one of fertility...and any man who could win the Queen's affections that night was certain to sire a child on her, hence the rapid weddings.

She remembered her brothers being among previous queens' suitors. As a child, she'd seen the uncrowned queens marrying other men, and she'd pitied her brothers for being rejected. Now, she realised that wasn't the case – the girls had been hurriedly married off to save what honour they had left after her brothers had finished with them.

That wouldn't be the fate of tonight's Queen, however – Margareta was certain of that. Queen Gerda was safe from her cursed brothers, and well known to be walking out with young Kay, a boy orphaned by the very same shipwreck that Prince Philip and his entourage had died in. Margareta hoped she'd see Gerda and Kay reach a marriage accord tonight, and that the competition of other men wanting her hand would spur the boy into action before he lost the girl.

"Perhaps when you are older, you will be Harvest Queen, and I shall make you a beautiful dress in gold," Penelope said to her daughter.

"No! Blue like Lady Margareta!" the child shrieked.

Penelope shook her head. "Your spirit is all spit and fire, child. If you are ever Harvest Queen, the boys will burn the city for you, thinking it is Midsummer and not harvest at all." She dropped her voice lower so only Margareta could hear. "I already told you, the competition will frighten the boy off. I'll wager you the first piece of velvet off my loom that he is too cowardly to ask the girl. He doesn't think he's worthy of her."

Margareta had to admit Penelope had an edge on her, being able to read the boy's thoughts and all, but Margareta wanted to believe some happiness would come of tonight's feast. Besides, watching the Harvest Queen while she was stuck at the high table, where no man would dare ask her to dance, would provide some amusement in an otherwise tedious evening.

"Let us go," Penelope said, straightening the veil she wore over her hair. To the two veiled novices who'd appeared in the doorway, she added, "Make sure she's in bed as soon as she's finished her supper. I don't want her sneaking downstairs to the feast again."

The novices murmured their agreement.

To the sound of Melitta screaming about wanting to come to the ball, too, Penelope and Margareta made their way down to the great hall. Penelope's dove grey gown and matching veil marked her as a widow, though she was long since finished with her mourning period. Margareta's blue gown glowed like the sky above, setting off her curved figure to perfection. When she arrived at the door to the great hall, silence fell without anyone needing to announce her name. The breath caught in every male throat as each and every man present desired to possess her, and every feminine gasp spoke volumes about how much they wished they could be her.

Margareta did not need the Harvest Queen's crown or Penelope's mind-reading magic to know these things – it was plain in the expression on every face. Even when her tongue was silent, a siren's body sang a song so enticing no human could resist.

Ignoring all the eyes on her, Margareta led the way to the high table. She paid little heed to the men already seated at her father's right and left hands as she headed for her accustomed seat at the far end of the table. She shared her small bench with Penelope, because after her, Penelope was the second highest ranking woman in the room.

The feast itself passed much like any other – everyone ate too much and drank more, until the volume of their collective voices rose to a roar that echoed around the room. When the roar approached what Margareta thought was its crescendo, her father rose to announce the Harvest Queen, who would open the dancing.

Clad in the traditional saffron-coloured gown worn by Harvest Queens for as long as Margareta could remember, Gerda approached the dais and dropped a deep curtsey, letting her skirt puddle around her as she'd no doubt practised. Father, as Master of Beacon Isle, laid the blessed crown of flowers on the girl's head and bade her to rise as royalty.

The moment the crown touched her hair, the atmosphere in the room changed from the sated merriment after a feast to charged anticipation.

"We're not the only ones betting on who the little queen chooses to be her king," Penelope whispered.

If it weren't for her spell of silence, Margareta would have had to smother a laugh. A lot of young men had turned their eyes on Gerda, as though seeing the girl for the first time. Poor Kay, who'd sat beside her at the feast, now stared into his mug of ale as though he couldn't bear to see how beautiful Gerda looked tonight.

The Master gave the order and the tables and benches were swept aside to make space for the highlight of the evening – the Harvest Ball.

Gerda and her golden gown were soon hidden among a crowd of eager young men, while other couples lined up for a country dance. Margareta longed to be among them, but her father would never allow her to dance, because there was no knowing when her siren side might take over and decide the poor boy needed to die instead of dance with her.

So Margareta watched and kept Penelope company, for no man would think of asking the widow of a saint to do something as frivolous as dancing, or so Penelope said.

"How fares young Kay?" Penelope asked.

Margareta pointed at the boy, who sat moodily in the corner with his ale.

Penelope clapped her hands. "You'll be taking me out on the boat for sure. I hope we'll have fine weather tomorrow, because I fancy a trip out on the ocean!"

So would Margareta, she admitted to herself. To be out on the waves, breathing in the salt spray and listening to the swish of the hull cutting smoothly through the sea, instead of the smoky air in the hall full of music and shouting and the stomp of booted feet.

"Lady, would you do me the honour of joining me in this dance?" the man to Margareta's right asked, extending his hand.

Margareta shook her head and Penelope piped up, "The Lady Margareta is under a vow of silence until her brothers return."

"But that won't stop you dancing, will it, my lady?" the man persisted. "Your father said –"

"Her father wants his sons to return just as much as Lady Margareta," Penelope said smoothly, cutting the man off.

Margareta dared to look into his eyes. They lit up with his eager grin, as if he truly didn't believe she could refuse him. She lowered her gaze, frowned, then shook her head emphatically.

"Meg, be a good girl. Go dance with the king's envoy," the Master ordered, stabbing a finger at the dance floor.

She shot her father a look of surprise. Didn't he care what happened to the ambassador? What if something happened and her true nature took over and...

"Dance, girl!" the Master commanded.

Unable to refuse, Margareta laid her hand on the envoy's proffered arm, and allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor. She shot Penelope an imploring look, begging her friend to keep an eye on her thoughts and that of the ambassador.

Margareta glimpsed Penelope's grave nod before she and the ambassador were whirled away into the organised chaos that was a country dance.