Liberté

Chapter 7 - Of Birthdays and Advice

The ceiling full of arches plated with gold spread overheard in its full glory. On his both sides, were the white walls, half of their height covered in dark wooden panels and the deer heads over them, set onto the juts between the windows with intricate panelling. The Great Hall bathed in the welcoming glow of the candles. Despite that, Louis did not feel very warm.

Perhaps because of that, he was startled when a sound broke the deadly silence and desolation of the room. The announcer's voice echoed in the vast space; somehow still muted, as though it was coming from behind a wall. "His Royal Highness, Prince Sigmund Francis of Austria."

Louis swirled to face the entrance of the hall, and there, striding in through the great oak doors, was a bearded man who was followed by a familiar woman.

"Lottie," Louis cried. Yet it was no louder than a whisper.

"Your sister has been promised to Austria," said his father's voice from behind him. Louis looked at him, wondering when he had come in. He had only heard the rustling of his sister's gown and their shoes clopping against the polished tile.

The prince turned his gaze back to where the man twice as old as Charlotte had her arm looped through his. His sister looked too innocent, so naively enamoured by the man's ostentatious cape and far too glad to be a piece in his father's game of political and financially profitable matchmaking. His family was like a plot from the English theatre scene, he thought bitterly.

At that moment, a timid hand touched his forearm, the prince meeting the brown and round eyes of Ms Calder, so alike the late Lady Calder's, they said. But Louis couldn't offer her anything more than the separate life common for royal couples; to force her to seek gratification and companionship from the people living at court.

"Your duty as the ruler is to marry someone of royal blood," his father interposed again. "I have enough of daughters to marry them to every royal family in Europe, but given the political situation, you must marry an Englishwoman of our bloodline. The public doesn't want a foreign queen in times of crisis. They need security, they need to rest assured that their king will have an heir."

Louis' brows furrowed. The prince had clued only to one word. "Pardon? What crisis, papa?"

"Pirates!" his father cried. "That's what I am talking about. The lowlife, the—"

Louis felt something tug in him and he wondered what it was about. His father sunk his hands into the riot of lace on Louis' collar—even that felt uncommon, as if he had worn just a dress shirt for quite some time—and levelled him a serious look. Louis avoided meeting his eyes, zoning in on a ruby on his father's crown.

"You never know when they are going to strike. As your father, I am concerned for your safety. I thereby hope you will take one of my men"—he gestured at a man in the shadows—"who has the highest recommendations, of course. Remorseless, seasoned..."

A firm hand replaced his father's on his shoulder, and when he looked up, he was met with green eyes. The man raised a finger to his lush, pink lips. Shush.

"Help," he whispered, barely moving his mouth. "Get me out of here."

He looked back at the left side of the hall where there were more people now; Charlotte distinguishable beside the Austrian, but currently accompanied by the rest of his sisters and every one of them flanked by old men with many baubles that screamed of 'arranged marriage' to him. The youngest were turning only twelve in a few months, still learning to crochet with their handmaidens.

But what hit him the strongest was the identical expressions of fear and disgust on their faces as they beheld their prince. Or the person behind him.