NOVEL NEXT 6-26 - Caroline of Cups
To summarize all that Caroline of Cups was in a mere few pages would be a fool's errand. The woman who monopolized the king's bed perhaps could be reduced to such a thing, but that would be an injustice to history. She was a thing of legend, and I don't mean that in the way I speak of divine beasts, ancient tombs, and grudges against the gods. I mean it in the trivial way humans speak of it. The shadow she cast with her actions touched far more people than one girl ever could save for the witch of the central kingdoms.
Allow me instead to bring to life one particular encounter. During this time, Lucius had returned to his family and little needs be said that has not already been said. The tone within the academy militarized in the political sense. Lectures were abandoned as the youths of the kingdom's nobility plotted with their cabals. Austin Feugard had proved himself a trailblazer and those less competent sought to follow his path. It is uncountable how many ventures were formed and fractured during that bloody summer. If any survived, they subsequently buried their associations.
South of the capital there was an estate, whose ownership was questionable. The noble family that had created it nearly a hundred years prior had died out and the last matriarchs will was lost in a fire, intentionally no doubt. A family of stewards ruled the village in their name, holding not a drop of noble blood. They survived through obscurity and paid taxes to the king alone.
This quirk came to Caroline's attention, though she didn't think of her actions as exploitation. Picture a girl of eighteen. Hair golden blonde, crowning her in fashioned curls. She adopted a fashion somewhat between that of a servant and of a courtier in an act of calculated modesty and compensated for her height but strutting in impractically tall riding boots. Her mind held little more than a childish ambition, fueled by a full-hearted belief in all the embellishments and pleasant lies a girl might hear from the nobility posturing for position. This diminutive calamity sought to play the role of a house steward without consulting the man she served.
There was a wedding to be planned, though no date had been set, and she accepted her role as concubine. She had been insulted by the ladies Montisferro and even the maids derided her in hushed whispers, projecting jealousy onto her. Seeing nothing but a way to quash such discourse, she travelled to the town of Cresten, a place you can no longer find on a modern map.
There is a certain polish that a happy town cultivates, given enough generations. The windows are unbroken, the walls glisten, and gardens burst with perennial flowers. The air is filled with the noises of children rather than hawking merchants and fatigued laborers. Even the air has its own quality when horses and carts are generally kept out of the town's center. It was this sort of idyllic place, which spoke to so many hearts as an icon of childhood homes sweeter for their distance from present misery, that Caroline trode upon with her slender heels like a pike formation a thousand strong.
The approach of royal carts caused a panic and the steward family had to be found, had to be dressed up in mummer garbs to kowtow before authority they wished would forget them. Amid this delay, she strolled the town's edge, never seeing beyond the facade of the old manor, and set her gaze upon the gentle orchard valley that pulled in the village's wealth. The western sea laid beyond, speckled with fishermen huts each at the end of little trails like festival streamers.
Most pointedly to every story that recited these events, Caroline of Cups was drinking. If the gossip was to be believed, she was never without a bottle of wine purchased with the king's coin, always turning her cheeks as rosy as the dawn. It was the privilege of youth that staved off the consequences of such a lifestyle, helped along by a tomboyish fondness for fencing despite little skill in it. Many would have preferred that she devoted herself to the art, but in the annals of history, I judge events by whether they help or hinder the final result. With this method, Caroline of Cups was a grand aid.
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The acting mayor, and although I could document his name hardly any rumor of these events had it accurate so it is of little consequence, rushed to join her at her vantage. He took her for a proper noblewoman and treated her thusly, playing to an ego she certainly had, but he saw the rolling lines of olive trees as a point of pride to be vaunted. It was those trees that paid the king's tax, mixed with the labor of the townsfolk to press the fruits to a fine cooking oil.
The culinary utility of such an oil was lost on the girl who knew little more than tallow was used for meats and butter for sweets. Giving the mayor little more than a glance from the corner of her eye and a smirk, she asked him, "You are without a lord and serve at the behest of none but the king, yes?"
The town's representative knew the sigils and iconography of the kingdom well, and though without power he was not without wits. He knew Caroline had come with no markings save those royal. "Until the king sees otherwise," was his response, despair beginning to tighten his muscles and composure.
The girl laughed and tried to put him at ease, promising that Cresten wasn't some mere boon to be given away as a favor. Indeed, there was hardly anyone in the kingdom deserving of a favor. "The king has his own needs–" A phrase which would echo through the kingdom. "And there is none better to serve than those who have no second master." Then, she went on to complement the beauty of the fields, of the town, and declare that it would be the location of the king's forthcoming wedding.
Word was sent back to Cresten at once, terse and coded, that the manor be prepared for such a visit. Such an event was within the imaginations of the townsfolk. The task daunted them, but they could grasp the issues at hand, the maintenance that would have to be done and the furniture refurbished. It would deplete them of their savings, but it was something that could be done while preserving their peace. The mayor subtly drew Caroline away from Cresten, on a meandering walk through the fields and orchard groves, such that the townfolk could begin organizing out of her sight. He took her up one of the hills that overlooked the sea and promised her that whales and dolphins could often be seen dancing among the waves, spraying their fountains toward the sky.
It was at that beloved and romantic spot she turned from the sea and frowned at the orchard. "The ceremony will need room," she said, and ignored his rapid propositions. "Not too low to be wet, not too high that the wind would blow apart the dresses. I suppose it should be there, with the back to the sea. The trees will have to be cut down, but I can arrange the workmen."
Where she pointed broke the mayor. She refused to reconsider. His words tumbled from one reason to the next as he tried to impress upon her why she could not tear down the olive trees for the wedding, but her reasoning began and ended with the fact that the king was the one with the authority. Even when he fell upon his knees, grasping at her hand and skirt to keep her from climbing back into her carriage she did not relent.
A hasty petition to the king was sent, but the people of Cresten had no connections within the palace to expedite their case and it was a week later that the man stood before the king. He made no good impression with his appearance. His clothes not just common but haggard from his travels and his endeavors within the capital to find a way to reach the king sooner. Perhaps had he known the enmity between Caroline and the Montisferros something quicker might have been arranged, but that too is doubtful. The ladies Montisferro were nearly as difficult to reach as the king and had no proper channels to pursue.
Contrary to what most rumors reported, the king did not condone Caroline's decision. The moment he realized it was more than reimbursing a merchant for goods taken, but something that needed to be actively stopped, he sent one of his personal guards to return with the man to Cresten carrying a fresh signed order stamped with the king's seal. The orchard was not to be torn down for a wedding that could not even take place there.
They returned to naught but dirt and stumps, days too late and never to recover. Even the oldest trees, which had been planted before the founding of Vassermark itself, had been cleaved to the ground. The lifeblood of Cresten had been killed, and new trees would take decades to mature once more.
Although Caroline was privately scolded, the damage had been done. From the ashes of that happy place would come enough hatred to fill a thousand hearts. In a better time, it is sure that the king's treasury could have made them whole. Caroline of Cups would have been banished from the palace rather than kept on a shorter leash. Fredrich von Arandall's reign was not such a peaceful time.