Princess Ben Read Online Free PDF
Author: Catherine Gilbert Murdock
retained an aura of petulance, for he shook me.
"Princess! We hover on the brink of war. Should you have any feelings whatsoever for the people who reside without these walls, accept your lot and consent to Her Majesty's instructions. She knows better than any of us what will be demanded of a queen."
"But I don't want to marry anyone."
"That is not a demand that I, or any of your supporters, would ever make of you."
My head rose. I had supporters?
"However," the old man continued, "you must play this game as the cards are dealt. Bend like the sapling you are. With time we shall find your oaken core."
A sour-faced footman appeared, striding toward us.
Lord Frederick stepped away from me and gestured to the nearest tapestry. "And here, my dear, you see a depiction
of your great-, great-, ah, great-grandfather in the War of Three Septembers. The Drachensbett catapults are depicted with remarkable clarity, are they not?"
The lord beamed at me so fiercely that I had no choice but to smile in return. He squeezed my arm.
"Ah," I gulped. "Yes. And the flaming arrows..."
His grip relaxed and his face melted into a smile: "I know you will manage brilliantly."
The footman coughed. "My lord, Her Majesty requests your presence."
"Yes, yes. I shall be there presently. Now, my dear, know you the location of your privy chambers? The Peach Rooms, I believe..."
So it was that my life passed from the joyous realm of heaven to the choking and inescapable tortures of hell.
FOUR
My privy chambers were without fault. Dubbed the Peach Rooms for the peach-tinted silk of the draperies and walls, they had every accouterment that a young woman of royal blood could possibly desire. The bedroom overlooked the castle's beautiful inner courtyard, Market Town, and on clear days even the far hamlet of Piccolo in the southern foothills. A receiving room, should that young woman wish to entertain guests privately, comprised a balcony roomy enough for three to occupy at their leisure. The library held volumes of novels and etiquette guides, while the dressing room, lined with wardrobes and mirrors, contained more shelves and drawers and storage space than my father's armory, and included an adjoining bath with deep tub. Even the ex—Peach Room connecting the Peach Rooms to the main corridor sported rosebuds and a cozy pink hedgehog.
Once again, I fear, I must interject into the meat of this
narrative some stale crumbs of fact, for the
ex-rooms
would soon occupy—and I pray I do not reveal too much by this intimation—a not insubstantial role in my life. The long-standing legend that giants erected Chateau de Montagne doubtless originated from the truth that the castle walls were thicker than several men standing abreast. Even windows facing the safety of the valley included seats deep enough for a roomy bed, or balconies without need of protrusion from the building's face, so spacious the sill itself.
The interior walls, too, possessed this unique and inexplicable depth. What in another building would be doorway was here broad enough to constitute its own room, with its own name: the "ex-library," "ex-ballroom," "ex—wool storage," "ex-bakery," known by the room to which it led. It took three steps—men's steps, grown men—to pass through an ex-room, and more time still to open and close the doors at each end, such was the walls' thickness.
My father claimed the entire arrangement of ex-rooms stemmed from a need to keep the footmen occupied, which it certainly did, for by tradition the ex-room doors remained closed. Father also pointed out that the ex-rooms constituted a veritable family history, their walls inevitably decorated with variants of the Montagne hedgehog.
As a child, I had always dashed through the ex-rooms, fearful I would accidentally be locked within. This once had happened, or I believed it had, though my mother swore it was only a nightmare, the dim memory clouding my perception. On one visit to the castle, feeling my
"Princess! We hover on the brink of war. Should you have any feelings whatsoever for the people who reside without these walls, accept your lot and consent to Her Majesty's instructions. She knows better than any of us what will be demanded of a queen."
"But I don't want to marry anyone."
"That is not a demand that I, or any of your supporters, would ever make of you."
My head rose. I had supporters?
"However," the old man continued, "you must play this game as the cards are dealt. Bend like the sapling you are. With time we shall find your oaken core."
A sour-faced footman appeared, striding toward us.
Lord Frederick stepped away from me and gestured to the nearest tapestry. "And here, my dear, you see a depiction
of your great-, great-, ah, great-grandfather in the War of Three Septembers. The Drachensbett catapults are depicted with remarkable clarity, are they not?"
The lord beamed at me so fiercely that I had no choice but to smile in return. He squeezed my arm.
"Ah," I gulped. "Yes. And the flaming arrows..."
His grip relaxed and his face melted into a smile: "I know you will manage brilliantly."
The footman coughed. "My lord, Her Majesty requests your presence."
"Yes, yes. I shall be there presently. Now, my dear, know you the location of your privy chambers? The Peach Rooms, I believe..."
So it was that my life passed from the joyous realm of heaven to the choking and inescapable tortures of hell.
FOUR
My privy chambers were without fault. Dubbed the Peach Rooms for the peach-tinted silk of the draperies and walls, they had every accouterment that a young woman of royal blood could possibly desire. The bedroom overlooked the castle's beautiful inner courtyard, Market Town, and on clear days even the far hamlet of Piccolo in the southern foothills. A receiving room, should that young woman wish to entertain guests privately, comprised a balcony roomy enough for three to occupy at their leisure. The library held volumes of novels and etiquette guides, while the dressing room, lined with wardrobes and mirrors, contained more shelves and drawers and storage space than my father's armory, and included an adjoining bath with deep tub. Even the ex—Peach Room connecting the Peach Rooms to the main corridor sported rosebuds and a cozy pink hedgehog.
Once again, I fear, I must interject into the meat of this
narrative some stale crumbs of fact, for the
ex-rooms
would soon occupy—and I pray I do not reveal too much by this intimation—a not insubstantial role in my life. The long-standing legend that giants erected Chateau de Montagne doubtless originated from the truth that the castle walls were thicker than several men standing abreast. Even windows facing the safety of the valley included seats deep enough for a roomy bed, or balconies without need of protrusion from the building's face, so spacious the sill itself.
The interior walls, too, possessed this unique and inexplicable depth. What in another building would be doorway was here broad enough to constitute its own room, with its own name: the "ex-library," "ex-ballroom," "ex—wool storage," "ex-bakery," known by the room to which it led. It took three steps—men's steps, grown men—to pass through an ex-room, and more time still to open and close the doors at each end, such was the walls' thickness.
My father claimed the entire arrangement of ex-rooms stemmed from a need to keep the footmen occupied, which it certainly did, for by tradition the ex-room doors remained closed. Father also pointed out that the ex-rooms constituted a veritable family history, their walls inevitably decorated with variants of the Montagne hedgehog.
As a child, I had always dashed through the ex-rooms, fearful I would accidentally be locked within. This once had happened, or I believed it had, though my mother swore it was only a nightmare, the dim memory clouding my perception. On one visit to the castle, feeling my