Chapter 1: The Wicked Bride

Amelia glared across the desk at the stubborn old cow who refused to budge.

"I am not going, Papa." She even added a stomp of her foot for emphasis, in case he did not get the point.

"You are," said the cow—also known as Amelia's father, the Duke of Marlborough.

"But why?"

"We agreed."

"You agreed. I did not!"

"I am your father."

"But papa—"

"No but's."

"But—"

"No."

"Will you at least come with me?"

"No."

"I am your daughter!"

"I know."

Amelia looked at her father, aghast. 'I know'? How should one even respond to that? All this time his head had been down, reading his papers, writing his letters, anything but sparing her a glance.

But she was Amelia Alexandria Weston, the only daughter of Nicholas Edgar Weston, Duke of Marlborough. This Amelia did not give up so easily.

She took a deep breath, ready to argue again.

"Go pack. Now."

She exhaled into a long, defeated sigh. How did she forget? The Duke of Marlborough was notorious for being a stubborn old cow. Once he decides to sway one way, no one can make him sway the other. Not even her.

She glared at him and pouted. Not like he was going to see anyway.

"Amelia, you look hideous when you pout," he commented without even lifting his head.

Argh.

With a 'hmph', she stomped out of her father's study.

Only when he heard the angry slam of his door did the Duke remove his spectacles and raise his eyes. He stared at the door, as if he could see his daughter there if only he looked hard enough.

It was his turn to sigh.

King Theodore was a wise king for forty years, but he was getting old. Too old to see or accept that his bastard sons were conspiring to bring down the Crown Prince. The court of Lyons had been calm for months. The eerie calmness before a storm. As a duke and adviser to the king, there was no doubt he would be drawn into the whirlpools and eddies of politics and schemes—the only question was 'when'.

He was getting old, too. Too old and too far detached from the rising families at court to ensure his daughter's safety.

He could not thank the Gods enough for Emir Rohan's timely proposal. The young Emir was well-known for his wealth and influence in the Northern Lands. She would be safe there, as his wife, hundreds of leagues away from court.

His Amelia was only sixteen, still a restless and hotheaded child, and he would have her company for a few more years—if only it was up to him. If only.

* * *

Amelia sat before her mirror of polished silver, pulling long faces at herself. Behind her, Marge brushed through her mistress' long auburn hair, braiding it loosely, and admiring the way the strands reflected red and gold in the bright midday light.

Marge was the late Duchess of Marlborough's handmaiden, who became Amelia's nursemaid when the Duchess died in childbirth. Once a beauty, the passage of time and a life in service have turned her into a plump, grim-looking woman with lips that turned down at the corners. But should one ever care to look beneath skin-deep appearances, they would find the kind and gentle heart of an honest and loyal servant who looked out for the young lady of the house as if she were her own.

"Why would my mother betroth me to a Northern man even before I was born?" Amelia wasn't as ignorant as most Southerners to think of the Northerners as barbarians. But Steersberg was a long way away from home, from her father and Spot.

"As I understand it my lady, the Duchess was good friends with Emir Rohan's mother—"

"I haven't even met him! How can I marry someone I have not met?" she exclaimed furiously.

"Emir Rohan has a good reputation in the north, I am sure he would be a good husb—"

"I bet he is incredibly stupid or ugly. Why else would a man agree to marry a woman who became his betrothed before she even existed in this world?"

"It is not an uncommon practice in the north, my lady. Mayhap he did not wish to bring shame upon House Weston by reneging on the betrothal."

"Which makes him incredibly stupid."

(Far up north, in the Steersberg Manor, Drake Rohan sneezed so violently that all his papers flew off the desk.)

Amelia suddenly spun around on her cushioned stool to face Marge, that wide grin and mischievous twinkle in her blue-grey eyes clearly indicating that whatever was up in that little head of hers was nothing good.

Marge started shaking her head and waggling a finger at her. "No, no, no."

"I haven't even told you my plan yet," Amelia protested, looking up at Marge with innocent doe eyes and reaching to hold her hands. "Help me run, Marge. His men arrives in ten days, I can slip out at night and—"

"Don't be silly, my lady." Marge pulled her hands out of Amelia's grasp and put on a stern expression. "Do you know anyone the Duke does not? Where would you go?" Amelia's grin faded. "Can you care for yourself?" Amelia dropped her gaze to her lap. "Would you never see your father again?" Amelia's shoulders slumped.

Deep down, she knew Marge was right. If she had tried to mingle with the ladies and mistresses at the Royal Court more, attended their parties, and pretended to be engaged in their gossips about men, she might have made friends of her own. But now, it was too late.

Not willing to sit around wallowing in misery any longer, she dashed out of her chambers, her braid coming loose as she ran down the hallways and winding staircases of the Old Marlborough House to the one thing that has never failed to bring a smile to her face.

* * *

Down in the stables, Amelia gently brushed her fingers through the mane of the spotted pony, her friend and thirteenth-birthday gift from her father. "Aren't you lucky, Spot, with no one to force you into marriage?"

Spot poked its muzzle at the side of her hip where she would normally keep an apple in a pocket, though she came with none today.

"Father wouldn't even let me take you. I wouldn't know anyone there except Marge. What if Emir Rohan is mean and cruel and beats me like many husbands do to their wives? Mayhap he's forced to honour our families' silly agreement, because no other woman would marry him. Who would protect me?"

Timo, the stableboy, came around from behind an old brown horse and held out an apple to Spot. The pony bit into it eagerly and ignored its mistress.

"Me uncle sells wares up north, m'lady," Timo said. "He's heard o' the Emir Rohan, everyone up there has, he says. They say he is a good man, a ch-cha... chariot..."

"Charitable?"

Timo nodded. "Chari-tittle man. He sells silk, m'lady. Lots an' lots o' silk. He greets the people, gives 'em soup an' bread in winter, he is not mean at all—"

"Appearances can be deceiving, Timo," she murmured, but Timo did not hear or did not understand.

"—not mean like 'em ladies an' lordships 'ere. Not m'lady an' His Grace o' course, but them other ladies an' lordlies treat us like we fleas, slaps us away, they the ones who are mean an' cruel." Timo brought up another apple and held it out to Spot. "Emir Rohan ain' like that, me uncle says. He would like you, they would all like you, m'lady. Them Northlies don' like no royal ladies in big dresses an' big hairs orderin' them 'round all day. You ain' like that m'lady—"

No, she wasn't. But if she was...

"—you would be a good Emira. You would like it there. I would beg t' go along with you, 'cept me ma is sick. Me uncle says the North has 'em big fields an' big farms a hunner'd times o' ours..."

As Timo rambled on, Amelia's eyes once again flashed with mischief.

She knew coming to see Spot would cheer her up. Ten days before the Emir's men arrive? That was more than enough time.

———

'Emir' is a noble title in Arabic that translates to 'prince' or 'commander'. Here, it's equivalent in status to a duke. I've adopted non-English titles and names for the Northern regions of my fictional kingdom Asis, to reflect the differences in culture and background.

Author's notes:

This is an entirely fantasy setting, inspired by Ancient Chinese concepts built into a Medieval European-ish setting. Throughout this story I'll offer explanations here and there for those of you interested.

- It was a common practice for Chinese parents to betroth their infant or unborn children to those of another couple, to seal alliances or friendly relations.

- Because of such alliances, noble/wealthy families often married their daughters off somewhere far away, in which case the parents normally did not follow nor attend the wedding.

- It was a superstition that insulting someone behind their back caused them to sneeze. Nowadays, it's often adopted in anime and manga for comedic value.