Hand Delivered Invitation
Olivia darted up the steep, narrow service stairs, sprinting two at a time, clutching an envelope. “Guess what, dad? Dad! Guess what?” badgered the lanky fifteen-year-old, needing not catch her breath as she entered her father’s chamber.
Her father sat on the edge of his recliner, leaning forward staring at the television screen in his red robe, undershirt, and boxers. He held his hand up to her, signaling for silence. Olivia kept her urgency in check as something imperative was just then arresting her father’s attention. Olivia crouched besides him and stared at the little men on the pitch fighting for the ball. At the sight of a key player missing the goal, the king groaned, throwing his hands up.
“He’s so cocky!” she moaned, pointing at the television. “Should have passed to Sanchez.”
“If I was the coach, I would throw him in the dungeon! Eh, what is it, love? Oh? Is that a letter?” Her father looked at the envelope as if it contained expensive chocolate requiring immediate consumption. “What fancy wrapping. Hand it here.”
“No, no, dad. This letter is addressed tome!”
“Addressed toyou?”
“I’ve never gotten post. This is the very first time. And you won’t believe it. It was hand delivered. Hand delivered! By a beautiful man...”
“Since when do you find men beautiful?”
“In a gorgeous, red Aston Martin.”
“Well, I do suppose in a car like that...so, what are you waiting for? Go on, read it already.” Olivia was blooming. She was no longer that little girl who stomped about the castle grounds in little red overalls and tiny sneakers, who, lunging at imaginary foes with a twig, slayed hedges and rescued teddies. Those days of not sharing her would soon to be over. King Antonio assumed the worst: an invitation to a ball. Some pompous party. Some horrible engagement wherein she’d meet some snotty blue blood, hair slicked with pomade. His majesty perspired as she read to herself. Olivia’s expression changed from glee to disdain. Frowning, she handed the letter to her father, not having bothered to reach its conclusion.
At dinner, the pair sat at a long, rustic wooden table, he at the head, she at his side, under an iron chandelier desperate for dusting.
“Why is it always men who decide these things?”
“But don’t they know you are a princess too?” said her father, cutting his meat. “Olivia is very clearly a girl’s name.”
“An invitation to fight a series of duels to win the hand of a princess? I mean, it isn’t just medieval, it’s...barbaric!” said she, clutching her knife and fork in tight fists. “I’m grateful you’ve never sent such invitations.”
“I have,” contradicted the King. “No one responds.”
“I’m serious. I feel sorry for the girl.”
“At least they set stipulations.” The king pulled out the letter, cleared his throat, and put on his glasses. “Age limits, 14 to 17. So that takes care of any...deviants,” he continued to read muttering to himself, “contenders will stay in blah, blah, not be restricted, blah, attend a ball, and...” King Antonio’s voice trailed off becoming almost inaudible. Reaching the end of the letter, he frowned and put the invitation away, as subtly as possible, into the front pocket of his fluffy red robe, saying, “Pass the potatoes.”
“It’s just so awful. It’s...primitive.” Olivia passed the roasted spuds, “Let me look.”
“Again? It will only upset you...”
“C’mon. It’smyletter.”
The king hesitated before handing over the crumpled paper. He knew she’d reached the end when her fist pounded the table, rattling the silver. Olivia stood, “This is despicable!”
“Sit down and finish your dinner, there’s nothing we can do. We can choose not to participate and that is all.”
Olivia sat back down but read out loud, “...the winner of each duel shall take full possession of the bride.” She waved the letter about. “Does this mean this poor girl will be passed around again and again, until the tournament is through?”
“I imagine, in these events, there is one contender who wins every match...duel, what have you, over and over.”
“But what if the strongest contender doesn’t bother to challenge the weaker boys early on...?”
“But you see, that’s just it; the contenders are justboys,” said her father, attempting to console her.
“Father, I’m 15. These boys are 15, 16, 17...” She re-read the last bit out loud once more. “...full possession...”
“Oh alright, alright, it’s awful. I admit it. Nothing we can do, princess. So, why don’t we just pretend that a nice handsome boy won the tournament, and she was rescued from a wicked step-mother...or something? Pass the gravy.”
“Because being rescued in that manner,” she passed the warm gravy dish, “is no different from being seized!”
Olivia went to bed grateful papa didn’t need money or land or alliances, for she knew it was man’s ambition that drove noble weddings rather than feelings or consent. She tried not to picture a young girl being taken to someone’s chambers to be had, like a whore. She failed. Then, she pictured herself in a dress being dragged to a boy’s chamber to be had. She’d long ago taken Sebastian, the groundskeeper’s son, by the hand to the stable to be had, or kissed, rather, but he’d not minded. Not one bit. No, this was different. As she drifted out into a sea of slumber, a fantasy took hold. A fantasy that had lain dormant many years. It began with her wielding a sword defeating imaginary foes; and in the current of her dreams, the fantasy morphed into a vivid image of her entering a tournament and winning the freedom of a princess to spite monstrous men. She woke with a bold new purpose.
“Are you out of your mind?” exclaimed the king, pounding his fist on the desk, rattling pens and scissors. “Clearly there was some kind of misunderstanding or mistake...”
“But father, the invitation was addressed to me, hand delivered to me!”
“Even if there was no mistake, there’s no way I’m going to allow you to participate in some despicable, violent, dangerous...”
“I can hold my own, I’m sure of it. I’m 16, almost. I’m practically an adult!”
“You are wet behind the ears and you do not know how to comport yourself in front of nobility...”
“And whose fault is that?”
The king lunged forward and put his finger in Olivia’s face, but Olivia did not flinch. “I wanted you to have a normal childhood so you wouldn’t become some arrogant entitled brat!” he paced and twirled his mustache.
“If I was a boy...”
“You arenota boy...” he bellowed.
And so, they screamed at one another in the library, throwing their hands up, gesticulating, voices overlapping, witnessed by maps and a globe and a piano and a tea set and an easel. They were also, unashamedly, in the presence of Petra. The ruddy round woman leaned against the desk, arms crossed under her bosom, reminiscing. Petra still thought of Olivia as a child. Though formally considered the cook, she had taught the young princess how to walk, put on pants, tie her shoelaces, and recite the alphabet in song. It had been a long time since she’d read the princess to sleep, but it seemed the young girl hadn’t stopped believing in fables. While father and daughter argued, Petra ventured into an inner world; a remembrance of things past.
“...and so, the prince took down the witch, and rescued the princess,” read Petra from a well-worn fairytale book.
“Again!”
“Again? Okay tomorrow we read it again. But next time, you help me.”
“I can’t wait to be a prince!”
“We’ve already talked about this, Oli. You are a little girl, and your father is a king, and so you are, by consequence, a princess.”
“Not so,” said little Olivia shaking her head adamantly, bed covers to her chin. It was true, that with her hair in a page cut, she did resemble a mediaeval knight more than a damsel, and that if it weren’t for her mother’s tiny golden earrings, no one would have taken her for a little girl.
“You can marrya prince. Then you will be his princess and...”
“No! I don’t need to be rescued. I have a sword. I can rescue myself.”
“You know, your father was once a handsome prince.”
“You mean before he got fat.”
“That isn’t nice to say. And he isn’t fat, he is very handsome.”
“And mom was a princess?”
“Yes.”
“And dad rescued her?”
Petra pictured his majesty’s joy on the day of his daughter’s birth, “I’d say it was the other way around.”
“So Mom was the prince!”
“No, Olivia, she was not! Okay, it is bed time, go to sleep now.”
Time passes. Most little girls grow into young women who trade sneakers for heels, swordplay for primping, modeling after their mothers. Olivia, however, had only her father to model after.
“Petra!” the king vociferated, startling the woman out of her memories and into the library. “Tell her. Tell her this is a terrible idea, and it isn’t proper, and I am her father, and she must obey me.”
“You’ll forgive me for saying so, your majesty, but you didn’t raise your princess to be obedient.”
Olivia held her tongue watching her father absorb the shock. His nostrils flared and he was red faced. “Out!” he ordered pointing at the door looking at his child. Olivia did as told, shutting the adults behind a heavy double door, ear pressed to the keyhole, the better to hear.
“Can you believe this? It is outrageous! When did she become so stubborn?” He paced like a caged lion.
“She’s always been stubborn. You thought it was cute.”
“When she was seven, perhaps! I don’t want her to go,” he whined.
“I won’t deny. It isa strange proposition, but...I’m sure it will be nothing more than a bunch of snooty kids participating in friendly fencing matches. They will wear the puffy white uniforms and the head protector, whatever it’s called.” Petra softened her tone. “Take comfort in the fact that she would consider it a betrayal of the self if she went on this journey to rescue a princess from an engagement...only to become engaged herself.”
Olivia nodded, crouching behind the door.
“You really think so?” The king’s voice softened, a lion trying to mew.
Petra gave the king a little shove. “Iknewthat’s what you were worried about! Don’t sound so relieved, Antonio! At her age, she should be excited about going on dates. It seems, however, the only way she’ll agree to engage a boy is on the pitch or by duel. Anyways, I have to go start on dinner. Either you allow her to go, or you lock her in the tower. It’s up to you.”
Olivia scrambled and ran.
