The Loneliest Ballad

3 May, 1368. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten

Celia wriggled into the special padded undergarments, face twisting with disgust. Lord, she hated getting her monthly course.

She hated how it made her belly ache for days. She hated the undergarments, lined with layer after layer of linen that made her feel like a waddling duck when she wore them.

Most of all, she hated her young husband's reaction every time that yet another month had passed and she still wasn't with child. She knew she was about to be berated again.

The lack of a child in her belly was all her fault, apparently. No one would ever dare suggest her husband might have anything to do with it. Apparently men, especially crown princes, were blameless in such matters.

Even if the man - or crown prince - was so overweight that it was a substantial effort for him to mount his wife at all, without copious wheezing.

Celia would find herself shuddering in revulsion every time Tobin lay a hand on her. She knew it was her holy duty to submit to her husband. Her own mother had even mentioned it to her shortly before she'd departed for Havietten. Princess Violet had spoken quietly back then of a wife's required obedience, even if she didn't like what her lord and master was doing.

At the time, Celia had simply nodded at her mother's advice because she'd no idea what to expect.

But now she knew. And sweet lord, she hated it.

She hated living night after night in tense endurance. She hated having to hold a welcoming smile on her face as Tobin reared and huffed noisily over her, his sour breath in her face and his sweat dripping on her. She hated having to pretend she wasn't being suffocated by his bulk of his enormous belly pressing on her.

If often took Tobin a while to finish, given how quickly he'd get out of breath.

Sometimes, he wouldn't be able to finish at all and apparently, that was also Celia's fault. Tobin would complain bitterly that she wasn't skilled or alluring enough to make his duties any easier.

How did he expect her to be skilled and alluring when she'd been delivered to him as an inexperienced virgin bride? One night, Celia had dared to ask him that question.

She'd never received a proper reply.

Now, she slowly padded out of the dressing room in bare feet and into the bedchamber she shared with Tobin.

Her husband was sprawled on their bed, watching her.

Celia flinched under his gaze and instinctively wrapped her silk robe more tightly over her nightgown. What she wouldn't have given for just one night where she could sleep alone.

Alas, it wasn't to be.

"Come to bed, wife. We have important work to do. What the hell was taking you so long in the dressing room?" Tobin's voice held a warning edge.

Celia shook her head. No point getting into the detail with the man.

Everyone described him as a man but frankly, Celia silently begged to differ. Tobin was almost sixteen summers old, just under three years younger than her. In many ways, he acted even younger.

He was the only legitimate son of old King Aron of Havietten. His birth had allegedly been celebrated with the most spectacular feasts and parades seen by his people for two generations. He'd been fussed over and pampered since his first day, and told without pause how very special he was.

So he'd grown up drunk on his own great importance as the future of the Royal House of Tralhamir. He'd been denied nothing in his precious life. And that included food.

The mighty Crown Prince Tobin was alarmingly fat and was growing larger every year. Yet no one ever dared say such a thing in front of him, or even gently suggest he consider eating less. It was well known his temper was as short as his body was wide.

"What are you waiting for?" Celia heard him snap.

She walked gingerly to their shared bed and sat down on the edge. She tried to smile as she looked into his round face, hoping her smile looked genuine enough.

What did it matter though, she asked herself? She was going to displease him anyway.

"I'm very sorry but I can't lie with you tonight, husband. I have my course." She hated how hesitant her voice came out.

"Again?" Tobin's expression immediately hardened. "Nothing again for another month? Fuck! How many more months are you going to keep letting down both me and my country?"

Celia ducked her head and murmured, "I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but we haven't even been married a year. We still have plenty of time."

"I'll decide if we have plenty of time, not you! Do you know the pressure I'm under to sire an heir? Do you understand how your constant failure places this kingdom at risk?"

Celia kept her head bowed, knowing nothing she could say was going to placate him. She just needed to endure his stream of angry words.

"I refuse to keep wasting my youth and my seed on a barren woman." Tobin continued. "You were chosen as my wife because you come from a fertile line. Your disappoint not only me but your own family too."

She wanted to bite back on that, wanted to respond that her parents and siblings would love her regardless. She held her tongue, however. If Tobin did decide to divorce her and send her back to Islia, the disgrace on her name would be insurmountable.

The failure would be hers alone to carry. No man would ever want to marry her in future.

Not that Celia cared much about that - if this was what being married meant, she'd be glad to remain alone for the rest of her days.

Her pride, however, burned at being the only one blamed.

She gritted her teeth as she tried to ignore the stream of complaints and insults Tobin continued aiming at her. Hopefully he wouldn't broadcast his disappointment in public again.

Last month, Tobin had gotten embarrassingly drunk at a costume ball and bemoaned the tragedy of having a barren wife, to anyone within earshot.

No one had shown her any sympathy, of course.

Celia felt she was deserving of, if not sympathy, then at least a little understanding.

Because had any of those haughty courtiers who looked down on her, ever stopped to think that her position wasn't an easy one either?

Had anyone considered that having to be bedded by a man such as Tobin, was a great penance in itself?