Fervidity

’Tis a most strange day at court, beyond the warmth of this March morning. The courtiers are more jovial today than when, just a year past, his Lord Father had come home triumphant with the Crown of Ireland beneath his arm.

It had come to be once the rebellion, perpetrated by the now extinct FitzGerald clan, started in the wake of my dear brother and mother’s passing. May their souls rest in peace. Father had ruthlessly quelled the uprising. If one were to believe the tales the knights told, Father fought as fiercely as he had the day he won the crown, just as the great King Arthur to defend the realm. Once, I’d been quite enamored with the idea of riding into battle, a knight resplendent.

However, after being left behind to tend my younger siblings, I cannot say I have the same interest in war. It is reality now, that I am heir and little Edmund is the spare. Should I go to war, should I die, Edmund is the one who will be stripped of his freedoms, made to stand beneath Father and Grandmother’s ever steely gaze. I wouldn’t wish it upon my dearly departed brother were he still alive, and I shan’t wish it upon my younger.

The only good thing to come of the war was to see one of my dearest friends return safely. He’s risen to his father station, however. A direct result of Father’s war with Ireland.

And now? Now we await the arrival of the scions of the newly risen FitzRían family. Their parents will now rule Ireland in Father’s stead. Re-risen, if the whispers of royal biographers prove true. These children are to be honored guests of my father and the court. Ostensibly so he might afford them the education required for their family to sit as the Stewards of Tudor Ireland.

In truth, each present knows why these children are truly being brought to court.

Father has been vocal about his desire to have an ironclad hold upon Ireland. The FitzGeralds never provided that. Indeed, they were the ones proven to have set alight the powder keg that created the damned war. As a result, the FitzRíans will not have the luxury of utter freedom.

Just as the Dowager Princess Catherine now has little autonomy where her life is concerned, so too will these children be yoked. I like the Princess well - as my brother’s wife. She’s a witty thing, pretty with her gold-spun hair and sun golden skin. She was a perfect compliment to Arthur with his northern paleness and deep auburn hair.

Without him, Catherine is but a rough jewel awaiting a crown. Such circumstance doesn’t sit well upon her delicate shoulders.

My thoughts turn to Catherine, for Father spoke to Mother some days before her death, of making our Spanish Princess into an Ambassador, an idea no doubt garnered from King Ferdinand, at least until he could find her a husband within our family. He daren’t marry her to a York, least they make a bid for the Throne, which truly puts a cat amongst the canaries.

Who can she reasonably be married off to given her station.

I am all too aware Father refuses to send her back now, for her dowry was only half paid, and her Father, whilst still keen on an English match, has little desire to pay the rest of the money owed. Though it is the honorable sequence of events.

Especially with Queen Isabella dead. Catherine can no longer claim the might of Castille behind her, as it belongs to her sister now. She is a less desirable bride without it. Especially with a dead husband to her name already.

I confess, given the last year and some months, I wonder if Father will take Catherine to wife. It is common knowledge he loved Mother most dearly, beyond reason by some accounts. But a King must have a Queen. Someone to balance them, to lend mercy where there might only be rage.

At least, that is what my tutors espouse. Though I do know, had Mother still been with us, Father would likely not have gone to war. If Mother were alive, Father might be healthier today.

Two of the guard opening the doors to the Great hall, pull me from my musings. For a moment, the entry way is empty, the court is silent. Then, a part step into the entry way. They are not, in anyway, what any of us expected. The silence shifts to an unnatural hush settling over the assembled court. Not even the fire crackles in its heart.

“Master Cian Ui’Soichian FitzRian, heir of the Eighth Earl and Countess Kildare, Lord Deputy Steward of Ireland; and his sister, Mistress Sorcha Ui’Siochian FitzRian, eldest natural-born daughter of the Eight Earl and Countess Kildare, presented to his Grace, in good faith to secure and continue peace between Ireland and England under his Grace’s most wise rule.” Says a man who must be the man-at-arms for their retinue.

It is an excellent introduction as these things go. The speaker’s accent may be heavy, but they deliver the English exceptionally well. Better than a few of the courtiers from the northern reaches may claim.

I’ve seen Ambassadors who stumble when they leave their native tongue behind. This new Earl of Kildare is savvy, to have the people presenting his children speaking such well-formed English. Or, perhaps, he has been playing chess longer than the former Earl had.

The pair step forward, and there is no mistaking their relation. Anyone with eyes can see it, though most may instinctively wish to deny them familial bond. The man - Cian, he is taller than I am. A feat, given I am all legs and arms and slowly regaining my grace. Master FitzRian, however, walks with the surety of a soldier made. I have to wonder if he fought beside the knights who stood beside Father. There aren’t any visible scars on him, however. His eyes are as clear the sky and as blue as the see, sweeping across the room carefully. He’s possessed of fine golden hair, cut into a court style, and his freckles just barely visible given the swarthiness of his complexion.

His sister, who stays in step with him, is a head and a half shorter. She is the cool shadow to his bright sunshine. Her freckles are still stark against her earth brown skin.

I’m surprised to see her dressed in the English style. Father’s advisors and my tutors had intimated that the fashions between England and Ireland differed considerably. Yet, here she is, draped in a sea-blue gown that makes her glow like a well polished jewel.

Her hair is the only thing not made in the English style. It loops about her dead, a band of blue matching her dress sits like a diadem, rather than a cumbersome hood. I like it well. Her hair is two or perhaps three shades darker than her brother’s yet unmistakably golden. There’s so much of it her braid seems to wrap around her head several times. Wisps curl around her face handsomely.

There are no jewels adorning her, and that’s rather a shame. Still, the young Mistress FitzRian is quite lovely. I will not be surprised to see her courted and married quickly. That is no doubt why she was sent. She will be taken as wife by a nobleman, forever tying the FitzRians securely to England.

Mistress FitzRian walks with an assurance similar to her brother’s which is quite puzzling. The curtsey she sweeps into hasn’t a single wobble to be seen - as if she’s been presented to a King before today. How often had she practiced it to be ready? Or was it her mother who drilled the steps and grace into her for just this moment. Does her mother look as she does? I have many questions, but there are several undeniable truths.

There noses hold the same curve, their lips the same fullness, cheekbones equally high and prominent. Her brow is gentler than her brother’s but the pair are in possession of matching hooded eye shapes.

Mistress FitzRian’s brother sweeps into a bow beside her, lower than needed considering their father’s new standing. Still, with a quick glance, I can see it pleases my Father greatly.

“Stand, stand. Be welcome in my court,” Father says, standing from his throne to make his way toward the pair.

“Your Grace,” Cian replies, voice strong, accent light as air.“ Father sends me with word of his eternal thanks for your generosity to our family. My most dear sister, presented as discussed by you and my Lord-Father.”

Cian, he doesn’t look at Father. If one were to glance at them, they would assume so. But my vantage point allows me to see his blue gaze sits just below and to the right of my father’s face. An interesting quick.

My lips twitch at the mention of his sister’s presentation. Such a pretty way of saying ’I’ve escorted my sister to be sold into marriage to benefit your house. A bride to please you, Sire.”

My eyes shift back to the sister. Now, with how near they are, I can get a better look at her. The dress is well made but not tailor made. That is evident in the visibility of stitching now and again at the seams. Still, the fabrics are of fine quality. The embroidery upon the garment was made with painstaking perfection in mind. Not a stitch is out of place, not a thread bulges.

This Mistress FitzRian is sturdier than some women presented to the court of late. Her waist is pleasingly thick, enough, even with her stomacher and whatever else on, it shows her health, rather than indicate illness. She’s well cared for. Her teeth flash for a moment in pleasant smile, and I’ve seen whiter, straighter teeth in my life.

Her eyes lift, just for a moment, and steal the breath from my lungs. A gaze of the clearest gold-shot amber meets mine. That gaze, her hair that rebels against its braid, her quiet considering manner - I am reminded of a lioness. I can only wonder what her temperament will reveal. Is she a lioness rampant, come to be tamed and grace the halls of the castle? Or is she but a common house cat, placidly awaiting her fate?

Alas, her gaze slips away from mine, though a fetching pink rises to her cheeks.

“Mistress FitzRian, remind me, how old are you?” Father asks and I admit, I am eager for the answer.

“Three and ten years, your Grace.” She replies, and I am reminded of sunshine. No. Not sunshine, a field of blooming daisies. The sort that Mary and Mother favored in the spring. Sweetly high, clear, and strong.

“And what accomplishments do you claim, little Mistress FitzRian?”

The question is out of the ordinary, drawing my full attention. Father rarely tries to make his guests feel as if they are a bug to be crushed unless they’ve gravely offended him. He regularly unleashes it upon the Privy Council. Yet he is clearly trying to garner such a reaction from the young Mistress. Is it to prove her status to court? Was this planned?

No doubt he felt it unnecessary for Grandmother to do so in his stead, planned or not. I now have to wonder if this isn’t the reason Father made her Grandmother was called away by my sibling’s tutors.

“I am skilled in sewing, embroidery, drawing, and arithmetic, Sire. Mother made sure I play the vielle and flute with some skill. I can sing. I’ll be able to easily manage my household given the instruction my mother gave me. My education has seen that I can read, write, and speak in Polish, Latin, French and I am growing rapidly with my Spanish. I’ve also been instructed on the cultures so I will not offend someone out of hand. I can read and write English well, though my writing suffers now and then. And of course, I am perfectly fluent in-”she pauses, and my lips pull into a genuine smile. Will she say what she means? Or shall she demure, the way an obedient daughter would?

“My own mother Gaelige. Father bid me learn Spanish three years past, just before word arrived of your heir’s passing, to honor his marriage, may God rest his soul. That’s why I can only claim to be progressing, rather than conversational. Blessed be the spirit of your lost son, Sire.” Her head dips for just a moment as she finishes speaking.

Mistress FitzRian is a bold thing indeed. Father reported he’d outlawed the use of their native tongue. A fit of pique, he’d claimed, but one to remind the Irish of their place as English subjects. Yet, here is the Lord Stewards own daughter, declaring Gaelige as her own language.

I like her well. She is different, fierce in her quiet way.

“Accomplished indeed. Please, be welcome in my court, Master and Mistress FitzRian. I present to you my son and heir, Henry, Prince of Wales. Father says, effectively calling me forward. I move to his side, hoping not to betray any eagerness.

“Well met, Master FitzRian, Mistress FitzRian. I hope you come to fin England as welcoming as your own Ireland is,” I say, inclining my head as they bow and curtsey as protocol dictates.

Mistress FitzRian’s face moves in a complicated manner for but a moment before a beautiful smile slips upon her lips. She says nothing, though I rather fancy she wishes she might. It delights me, lending me to believe she is a lioness most wild.

Three and Ten. She is too young for Father, so too is she too young for most of the newly invested Lords and Knights. Grandmother will fly into a rage fit to see the devil himself rise if a man fully grown requests Mistress FitzRian’s hand.

It’s no secret Grandmother’s past haunts her. No child but father, no marriage since the last husband met his fate.

Perhaps Mistress FitzRian will go to Charles then, or perhaps one of the new Knights might draw her attention. Perhaps she will be a match for me. Gazing at her speculatively, the idea gains merit. I should concoct a plan to know her better. Though I must endeavor not to ruin my virtue or impugn her own. To know her with the court’s eyes upon us will be....difficult. They will make assumptions that might trap us.

No. I will find a way to do so away from prying eyes and ears.

I certainly have no wish for a bride presently, but life is not always so kind, and I refuse to take my brother’s widow as my own wife. Nor shall I be saddled with someone I loathe or know not at all. The Princess from France is a possibility, though I highly doubt Father will venture to broker a match with the French for all he used French Mercenaries to gain the throne.

No. My sisters, unfortunately, are better pawns for such matches. Well, Mary is better placed for such a move. Little Katherine will enjoy years of carefree life before she must think of marriage, and Margaret will be spirited away to Scotland inside the year.

Hm. Yes. It seems the Mistress FitzRian is a bridal candidate for me.