I must talk with her. Even my flying machines will not get me to Denmark!
The princess’s rooms were below the king’s in the rebuilt main tower. There was a sentry on the Wall above the tower door. Conor knew him as one of his father’s favourites in spite of his relaxed attitude to authority.
That Bates will be the death of me and himself, Declan often complained. I don’t know which is sharper, his aim or his tongue.
Conor saluted him. ‘Corporal Bates, nice evening.’
‘Really? Not if you’re up on a wall with an ocean breeze blowing up your trouser leg it isn’t.’
‘I suppose. I was just making conversation. I’m really here to -’
‘See Isabella, as usual. You have that big lovestruck gombeen head on you again. Go on up there before the Denmarkian fellow steals her away on his hobby horse.’
If Conor had been really listening, the hobby horse comment might have made him pause.
‘It’s Danish and do you think he can steal her away? Have you heard anything?’
Bates stared at Conor as though he were mad, then smiled slowly. ‘Oh, I think he has a good chance. Strapping lad like him. And the way he eats up all his dinner. Very commendable. I’d get up there if I were you.’
‘Should I wait here while you announce me?’
‘No, no,’ said Bates. ‘You go on up. I’m sure the princess would love to see you.’
Not exactly procedure, but Bates’s cavalier disregard for protocol was legend.
‘Very well, I will go. Thank you, Corporal Bates.’
Bates saluted merrily. ‘You are so welcome, young Broekhart. But don’t thank me now; just make sure I get an invitation to the wedding.’
Conor hurried up the staircase and he was panting by the time he reached the princess’s floor. The stairway opened to an arched vestibule with four glowing electric globes, a spectacular Norman medieval tapestry and a cherub fountain, which generated more noise from its two pumps than it did water. The vestibule was deserted, apart from Conor who steadied himself against the wall wishing he wasn’t sweating and covered in mud.
Of all the days to be wrestling pigs and running up stairs.
From behind Isabella’s door came peals of delighted laughter. Conor knew that laugh well. Isabella saved that particular laugh for special occasions. Birthdays, christenings, May Day. Pleasant surprises.
I have to go in there, to hell with the consequences.
Conor drew himself up, pasted his hair down with a licked hand and barged into the private apartment of a royal princess.
Isabella was kneeling at her small gilded reception table, hands dripping red.
‘Isabella!’ shouted Conor. ‘You’re bleeding.’
‘It’s just paint,’ said Isabella, calmly. ‘Conor, what are you doing here?’
There was a little well-dressed boy at the table.
‘This funny man is smelling of the poo poo,’ said the boy, pointing a finger dripping in green paint.
Conor suddenly felt ill.
Oh my god. Little child. Paint. Eats all his dinner.
Isabella’s face was stern. ‘Yes, funny man, explain the poo poo smell to Prince Christian.’
‘This is Prince Christian?’
‘Yes, he is painting a masterpiece for me, using only his fingers.’
‘And also the paint,’ the prince pointed out.
Isabella nodded. ‘Thank you, Christian, you are so clever. Now, Conor, explain the odd smell.’
‘There was a pig in the courtyard,’ said Conor weakly. ‘Porkchop, I think her name was. We bumped into each other.’
Christian clapped his hands in delight, splattering paint over himself.
‘The funny man does not have money for the horse, so he is riding the pig.’
Conor did not rise to the jibe. He deserved it and more.
I must look like a halfwit, he thought. Straight from fencing and pig wrestling.
Isabella cleared her throat. ‘Ahem, Sir Conor. Could you, in the minute left of your life before I have you executed, explain what you are doing here?’
Now that he was here, Conor was not sure what to say, but he did know that it should be something true. Something meaningful.
‘Firstly, Your Highnesses, apologies for the intrusion. Isabella, I had something… I have something I need to say to you…’
Isabella had not heard that tone from Conor before. Not once in fourteen years.
‘Yes, Conor,’ she said, the mischievous twinkle absent now.
‘About your birthday…’
‘My birthday is not for a while yet.’
‘Not this birthday, last birthday.’
‘What about my last birthday?’
There was a stillness then, silence even below in the courtyard as if the entire world was waiting for Conor’s answer.
‘That spring-loaded glider…’
‘You don’t want it back, do you? Because the window was open and I…’
‘No. No, I don’t want it back. I just felt I should tell you that it was the wrong gift to give you. I hope you were expecting something different. Special.’
‘A spring-loaded glider is very, very special,’ said Prince Christian seriously. ‘If the princess is not the wanting it?’
Isabella held Conor’s gaze for a few seconds, seemingly dazed, then blinked twice.
‘Very well, Prince Christian, I think teatime is over. I hope you enjoyed your tea and cakes and the lemonade.’
Prince Christian was not eager to leave. ‘Yes, the lemonade was pleasing. I was wondering may I have the vodka?’
‘No, Christian,’ said Isabella brightly. ‘You are only seven years old.’
‘A brandy then?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Yes, but in my country it is the custom.’
‘Oh really. Let’s ask your nanny, shall we?’
Isabella pulled a bell cord on the wall, and seconds later a Danish nanny arrived, gliding into the room like a carriage on rails. The lady was not smiling, and looked as though she rarely did.
She took one look at Prince Christian and rolled up her sleeves.
‘I am the baby prince washing now,’ she said, grabbing Christian by the forearm.
‘Let go of me, servant,’ squealed Christian, struggling vainly. ‘I am your master.’
The nanny scowled. ‘That’s quite enough of the master – servant talk, Christian. Be a good little prince and Nanny will make you wienerbrØd for supper.’
Immediately mollified, the little prince was led from the apartment, trailing blobs of paint behind him.
Isabella wordlessly disappeared into her washroom, and Conor heard water being poured.
She’s washing off the paint, he thought. Should I stay now? Or should I go? When she left the room, was that a dismissal?
Things had suddenly changed. They had always been equal before, now he was worrying about her every feeling, her every footstep.
I should go. We can talk later.
No. Stay. Definitely stay. Victor would not run away. If I go now, we will be back to confusion tomorrow.
‘Who are you talking to, Conor?’
Conor was about to protest that he had not been talking, when he noticed that his lips were already moving.
‘Oh, I was just thinking aloud. When I am nervous, I sometimes…’
Isabella smiled kindly. ‘You really are a scatterfool, aren’t you, Sir Conor?’
Conor relaxed. She was teasing him. Familiar ground.
‘I am sorry, Princess. Will you have me garrotted?’
‘I prefer hanging, as you well know.’
Conor took a deep breath and bared his soul. He did it quickly, like jumping into the ocean, to get the pain over with.
‘I came because you told me this tea was part of a royal courtship.’