The Loneliest Ballad

It was well past the ninth hour of the morning by the time Tobin awoke and bellowed for his servants to attend him, shouting he was hungry.

Three pages rushed into the apartments, carrying numerous covered trays of food.

Once the prince had eaten his fill, the manservants who were responsible for attending to his bodily needs, swarmed into the bedchamber with bowls of hot water and towels. Celia remained in the presence chamber, still in her robe and her stomach rumbling with hunger.

No one paid her even a cursory glance.

She could hear Tobin giving orders and reprimands as he was washed.

One of the delightful discoveries she'd made about her husband shortly after their wedding was that he didn't like taking baths. He claimed his skin was too fair and fine to just soak in a tub of water every day.

Instead, Tobin was laid on the bed over a layer of thick towels every two days while servants wiped him down with cloths soaked in perfumed water.

Celia swore Tobin was less concerned about soaking his fair and fine skin and more worried about splintering any bathtub he reclined in. And even if the timber held together by some miracle, he'd have an impossible time clambering out of it afterwards.

She almost laughed out loud in that moment, picturing her husband trapped like a fat, floating grub in a bath he couldn't escape.

Good heavens, but did she pity the servants responsible for cleaning her husband's body. They were almost as wretched as her.

She waited until she saw the servants leaving the bedchamber with wet towels in their arms, before summoning her own maids to help her prepare for the day. When she entered the bedchamber, Tobin was still on the bed, albeit in clean clothes and with his wet hair combed down.

Her bath was duly prepared within the dressing room and she sank into the warm water as her maids scrubbed her.

There was something about sharing a bed with her husband that meant Celia woke up feeling unclean every morning. Perhaps it was because he sometimes sweated profusely in his sleep and she worried about the odour clinging to the bedsheets.

Once dried off, her maids laced her into one of her many beaded gowns. They briskly brushed and twisted her hair, pinning a veil in place.

Stepping into silk slippers, Celia was finally deemed ready to face the day and her subjects.

Tobin was standing at the door, tapping his foot with impatience. "You take forever to get ready every morning, wife. Let's go."

It was their routine to visit the chapel every morning as a couple. Tobin always said it was important to show their people that their future king and queen were pious souls.

Celia was less interested in what the court thought, but she looked forward to the hour she spent every day in the chapel. She enjoyed the peaceful solitude under the tall arched stone ceilings, and the beauty of the stained glass.

She also relished that for an hour every morning at least, there was no one to raise their voice or try and bait her. Celia could instead quietly bow her head and pray for the health and happiness of her parents, her younger siblings, her grandparents.

She missed home so much, it was like a clamp to her heart. She'd known her destiny for years - that one day she'd have to leave home for the good of her kin, like most princesses do. That she'd have to become part of another family.

She'd just never expected her new family would treat her with such dislike.

Oh, it had started out promisingly enough. She'd been feted and admired when she'd first arrived in Havietten the previous summer. It felt like the entire country had turned out to greet her when she'd crossed into her new country. There had been an overwhelming number of parades and entertainments arranged at each place she'd visited.

At each location, there had been formal addresses and picnics or masques as Celia had slowly made her way to St Ivan's Palace, where she knew her bridegroom awaited her. The mayors and most important lords of each location had personally greeted her and lavished her with praise over her beauty and poise.

It had made her hope that her young husband would also be pleased with her when they met. She knew nothing about him really, except that he was King Aron's only son and he was three years younger than her.

Celia wasn't an idiot. She knew better than to expect love at first sight or any other silly romantic fantasy. She knew it would be stilted and awkward between them at first as two strangers.

But if he was a kindhearted youth, perhaps they'd eventually sort well together? Perhaps they might even be able to strike up a friendship, and share a laugh over the discomfort of only meeting a few days before they pledged their vows to each other?

There had actually been a smattering of hope in Celia's heart amongst all her terror, when she'd finally arrived at St Ivan's. She knew it was her duty to her country to make a success of her marriage. Perhaps it wouldn't be impossible.

She laughed wryly now when she thought back to those days. Why had she dared to hope at all?

Her stomach had dropped and almost hit her fine silk shoes when she'd first seen her husband-to-be.

Crown Prince Tobin wasn't much taller than her, with brown hair that curled against his collar and pale grey eyes.

He was also fat. Alarmingly, shockingly fat.

It had taken every shred of her willpower for Celia not to just gawp at him with her mouth hanging open. Was someone playing a cruel jest on her?

She'd held her polite smile as she'd bowed to the King and Queen of Havietten, then greeted her betrothed. No one knew the monumental effort it cost her to hide her shock.

He was only fifteen! How - how!? - was it possible for him to be almost as wide as he was tall, at such a young age?

Celia had smiled at him nervously.

Tobin had smiled back that day, but there had been no real warmth in his gaze.