The Paper Crown

5. The Royal Wedding

From that moment, it is a relief that I cannot speak Selician and that few people at the table speak Rothalian. I sit in silence and fury while slowly around me the others start up conversations which, even in a language I cannot understand, are all too obviously forced. Only Mariusz's young friends continue to attempt smiles, though they falter under King Edmund's unimpressed gaze. Mariusz sits back down and watches me from across the table, as though daring me to respond. When I do and say nothing, he turns his attention to his wine glass. He too spends the rest of the meal in silence.

When the dinner is over, my uncle takes me back to my apartment. At the door, I turn and face him.

"What did he say?"

"Don't worry. I will talk to him."

"No you will not!" I am humiliated twice over at the thought. "I don't need your help."

"Very well. I won't talk to him. What are you going to do about it? How will you earn your husband's respect and the court's approval?"

"Certainly not by having you interfere every time someone insults me."

He considers it. "You're not wrong. But what are you going to do?"

I have no idea. It burns me to let an insult go unchallenged, but I know no way of challenging it that won't set Mariusz further against me.

And I have to marry him.

"No wonder you didn't want to send one of your own daughters here," I snap. "You knew exactly the quality of the reception they would receive."

"I did tell you it would be difficult for Selica to accept whomever I sent. Though I doubt Mariusz would dare insult my own daughter in front of me. And his friends would certainly not dare laugh at such an insult. No. They all would have treated Viktoria or Elisabeth with perfect manners, perfect silence, and great distance."

"In other words, I suffer more."

"I will always help you if you ask."

"And I will never ask."

"Then what are you going to do, all by yourself, with no one to help?"

I cannot answer him, because I do not know.

He waits for a long moment. "You will do nothing, then. Well, that is a choice. But it is very rarely the right choice." He gives me the briefest of bows. "Goodnight, Alexandra."

The next week is taken up with wedding preparations, meetings, dinners, introductions and discussions. Prince Mariusz does not repeat anything like his insult of the first night, but there is little opportunity for him to do so. When we are together, we are surrounded by lawyers, politicians, reporters, and priests and too busy for anything approaching conversation. He arrives late to every meeting and as soon as there is opportunity, he disappears. He has a real talent for disappearing, I discover. The first phrase I learn in Selician is kde jest knez? Where is the prince? Someone is always saying it, most often Dowager Duchess Maria. Usually, soon after, we discover a door ajar or a window open and a footman is sent to retrieve the errant prince, if he can find him. I begin to wonder if Mariusz will even turn up to our wedding.

On the day, I am woken before dawn to be dressed in the dozen square yards of silk and velvet and lace that comprise my wedding dress. I wear the ducal diamonds across my neck and wrists and hair, and a cloak of pure white ermine from my shoulders. When the servants are quite finished with me, I fold the veil back over my head and stare at my reflection in the mirror. The clothes and jewels make me look powerful, like I could raise armies with a sweep of my silk-gloved hand, and I have to touch my face to make sure it really is my reflection, and not someone else.

I am taken to the cathedral in a covered, curtained carriage with Henryka and Zofia, my two ladies in waiting. After the first few days of broken French and misunderstandings, Henryka and I unanimously and wordlessly decided not to speak to each other except when necessary. When we are handed out onto the cathedral steps, she and her sister take my train in perfect silence. We know the routine. We have practiced it on the palace steps, though they are not so grand. It is all one glittering performance, this wedding, and we all must play our parts.

Inside the cathedral stands the audience, waiting. The air is clammy with the expired breath of a thousand people. They are crammed into the pews in the nave, standing in the side aisles, spilling out of the balconies above.

They are all looking at me.

I perform.

I lift my chin and walk down the aisle. At the other end stands Mariusz, his hands clasped together in front of him, his gaze upon me.

Should I smile? Should I pretend I am happy? My audience might expect it. It is the usual narrative of a wedding. But I feel nothing beyond the compulsion to move forward to where Mariusz in white fur and the bishop in gold silk wait.

He must be hot in that fur. With that thought, I am aware of my own discomfort: of the weight of the tiara compressing my spine, of the diamond necklace scratching at my throat, of my sweat damp and sticky under my breasts and between my thighs.

My audience is still watching. I force myself to take the last dozen steps and stop in front of Mariusz. Here, the most distasteful element of the performance is to be enacted. King Edmund steps forward, raises my veil over my head, and kisses me twice on each cheek. I stare at the painted ceiling, willing myself to neither flinch nor feel. My uncle turns to Mariusz next and kisses him once on each cheek then steps away to take up his place in the front pew.

Mariusz holds out his arm to me as the organ dies down into silence. He leads me to the altar and we kneel together on red silk cushions. The two girls place my train carefully down and retreat. Mariusz holds my hand in his. His hand is shaking.

He's afraid.

So am I.

I bury my feelings beneath the performance of being a bride in a Catholic wedding. It is the bishop's performance, for the moment. He preaches in incomprehensible Selician. At select moments, he pauses for Mariusz and I to give our vows. I recite the syllables as I have learned them, without knowing what a single one of them means. Then, when my knees ache from kneeling and my feet in their silk slippers are numb, it is over.

The bishop says the words which I recognise as the end of the script. Two choir boys step forward to help Mariusz to his feet, then Mariusz offers me his hand. With the weight of my ermine cloak and dress, I need it, but even when I am standing he does not drop his grasp. The bishop says something else, something unscripted, and Mariusz moves very close, until he is looking into my eyes. He touches my cheek and tilts my face towards his. I move passively at his touch, my thoughts frozen by the overwhelming consciousness of the thousands of people watching us. I don't even realise he means to kiss me until he's doing it — properly, on the mouth, and long enough that my thoughts have time to catch up. I've never been kissed on the mouth before. I've never been kissed by a lover at all. And now, I'm being kissed, while an audience of thousands claps at the sight.

Mariusz draws back at last, still holding my hand. His eyes are as cold and sullen as ever. Lover? No. I've still not been kissed by a lover. This stranger is my husband, nothing more.

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2024-04-07: From this point, I will try to keep updates regular on Tuesdays and Fridays. I do not promise to stick to that schedule. When real life gets busy, I will fall behind. But I'll try.