51"How To Win Her Over," by Lillium
Author's Note: As you clever returning readers might have noticed, Chapter One has, indeed, changed. It got longer and slightly more descriptive, but, does not alter the story's events. And, though re-reading this isn't really necessary, you might find that future chapter edits will include plot- and character-clarifying information.
For those of you who haven't read this before, well, enjoy!
They were young, still new to the world, with much to learn of its ways and wonders. Yet each having seen fifteen winters made them women in the eyes of thos around them. Still, they were not women, weren't even girls to each other. Simply friends, and intimate ones, at that.
Among them was a young princess, Lavena, the fair daughter of King Edward Longshanks. Hardly a maid like those immortalized in song, she was still quite beautiful - she, petite with elfin face and auburn curls - though, if presented the idea, would surely greet it as she would a claim that the sky was falling: with skepticism cradled in her hazel eyes. For even her modesty was legendary.
It was her fealty, however, which was the talk of elite social circles; the princess Lavena prided herself on her love and devotion for her two ladies-in-waiting. They were like sisters, though different as night and day - willowy Drueta with her wheaten locks and azure eyes, and sensual Sisilla with hair of ebony and eyes of gold. Their closeness was well known in the Court, and none could gain the princess' attention, without also meeting with her ladies.
And so it happened upon a particularly fine Mayday, when all the Lords and Ladies of the King's Court were merry, taken away with drink and pleasant company, that a young gentleman approached the three ladies, who had been huddled in a corner, giggling madly among a circle of peers.
He was tall and wiry, sandy-haired, with eyes of such deep aqua they seemed to perfectly match the color of his silken doublet. The expression he wore was benevolent, full to the brim with the proper amount of respect for noblewomen, but there seemed something wrong about his easy smile. Though dazzling white - probably rinsed dozens of times over, with lemon juice, as he seemed the type - there was a peculiar sickliness to its charm, something like the heavy aroma of honeyed wine. Though, perhaps, it was just an illusion.
A mousy little servant girl stepped forward to announce him, seeming to revel in the honor of speaking his name, "My Ladies, may I present the most noble and revered Sir Stephen of Kent?" She then proceeded to describe, in almost excruciating detail, a series of too-impressive-to-be-true feats that were, undoubtedly, manicured to present the young man in the best possible light.
The young ladies of the Court swooned appropriately, for the most part unimpressed, but none would be caught acting so bold or impolite as to speak of it. And so, they each fanned themselves in turn, and shot well-rehearsed coy smiles in Stephen's direction. All but two, Drueta and Sisilla, who remained stoic.
The latter spoke first, gaze turning flinty as she turned her attention to the uninvited guest. "And for what purpose does the great Sir Stephen honour us with his undoubtedly divine presence?" inquired Sisilla smoothly, her tone formal, though quite obviously annoyed. What right had he to interrupt her lady's intimate little gathering?
The courtier did not seem to notice the sarcasm dripping from her voice, and responded with a warm, hearty laugh. Was he truly that thick? It appeared so, for he beamed at her, his eyes sparkling like reflections of some far-distant sea, and said, "The honour is most certainly mine, my Lady."
This alone hardly placated the raven-haired lady's skepticism, and, still greatly doubting the young man's worth, she stole a glance at Drueta. Solely from the other maid's expression, she gagued that she was not alone in her disbelief. It did not surprise her; the two ladies-in-waiting often agreed on such matters. Even less was her shock when the blonde girl nodded, almost imperceptibly, toward the princess.
Lavena was smiling broadly, a rosy blush rising to her milky cheeks. She wrung her hands nervously behind her back, shoulders tensing and untensing with each long-winded sentence that spewed from his plump lips. Sisilla and Drueta exchanged a sidelong look – they both seemed to know that Stephen's words were not more than hollow flattery. But Princess Lavena did not appear to see through the idle blanket of courtesy. No more did she notice that Sir Stephen's long-lashed eyes were aimed not at her childlike face, but upon the face of the raven-haired Lady at her side.
The attractive young fellow likened the princess to infinite maidens of mythology, and her cheeks grew steadily redder, until she looked the precise color of an overripe pomegranite. Her ladies subtly rolled their eyes as several pagan goddesses were said not to hold a candle to Lavena's beauty, and it took great efforts from Sisilla to remain docile and silent while Stephen lavishly compared the princess to each of the nine Greek muses, in turn. She was more fascinating than Calliope, more captivating than Thalia, more inspiring than Clio.
In the space of a quarter hour, he had Lavena near-trembling before him. Her two ladies, however, were still quite unmoved by what they presumed a pathetic, though apparently customary, display.
Without betraying her sentiments, Drueta placed a hand upon the princess' shoulder, and spoke softly, "Your Highness, it grows late..." She broke off, looking to Sisilla for support.
"Yes!" the other picked up immediately; she, too, grew tired of the young noble's long orations about himself or exaggerated accounts of the princess' beauty and wit. Quickly inventing an excuse to leave, she continued, "We must away and make ready for the tourney." Placing a hand on the small of her lady's back, she shot a bold, blatantly disapproving look at Sir Stephen.
Without any futher discussion, the two maids had steered Lavena in the direction of the corridor, and ushered her away.