Setting aside every remaining piece of official business, Steward Marquis Froisbourg hurried back to his residence.
He gathered his wife, his sons, the retainers of House Froisbourg, and the other principal members of the household in the dining room.
And his eldest daughter, Braune, as well.
This concerned House Froisbourg.
And it concerned her too.
◆
Marcel had been born the second son of the prestigious old House Froisbourg, a marquisate that had produced generations of Stewards to House Leroy.
His elder brother died young, and Marcel, the son of a secondary wife, inherited the house.
As he grew older, he entered the world of politics—the hereditary vocation of House Froisbourg—and steadily advanced through important offices. Near the end of the previous king’s reign, he succeeded his father as Steward.
The king had been full of vigor in his youth, but by his later years he had become thoroughly subdued.
Political setbacks were compounded by declining health, and he eventually ceased involving himself in government almost entirely.
The Crown Prince was not yet an adult and could not serve as regent.
And so, during that period, the man who effectively kept Santeneri running was Marcel.
As Steward of House Leroy—in other words, as chancellor of the Kingdom of Santeneri—he had placed great hopes in the Crown Prince.
The boy was rough around the edges and inclined to disregard reality, but he was still only a teenager.
Marcel believed those flaws would fade as he matured.
The Crown Prince had “energy.”
For a man who had spent years watching the king’s apathy at close range, that single quality was enough to outweigh the boy’s other defects and make him worth hoping for.
Then the king died, and a new king took the throne.
Grois XIII.
The year that followed did not go well.
Grois XIII went somewhat too far.
His intention to rule personally became evident very early.
But unlike the distant past, when royal authority extended only over northern Santeneri, the modern kingdom encompassed all of Santeneri and even possessed overseas colonies. It was one of the great powers of the Central Continent.
For one man to handle every problem that arose across such a realm entirely by himself was almost impossible.
Information had to be gathered and processed. Broad judgments had to be made. Several “draft proposals” would then be presented to the king, who would choose among them while taking his retainers’ opinions into account.
That was what modern personal rule meant.
At first, Marcel assumed that was the form of personal rule Grois wanted.
Then the misunderstanding became apparent.
Grois wanted to involve himself from the “draft proposal” stage onward.
He did not consider the opinions of his retainers necessary.
Rather, the king regarded them as contaminants.
First came the king’s conviction that “reality ought to be like this.”
Without passing through discussion among his ministers, that conviction became “a plan for realizing the ideal.”
Then it was implemented.
Naturally, the king’s ideal plans did not work.
Marcel fulfilled his duty as Steward.
He remonstrated with him.
Naturally, the king rejected him.
When Marcel was suspended from court, he accepted the treatment with a kind of numbness.
Soon enough, he would be dismissed from office.
That was fine.
He had done what he was supposed to do.
Then, during those days of resignation, the king suddenly fell ill.
King Grois was unusually enough an only child.
If anything happened to him before he produced an heir, the royal line would pass to a cadet branch.
House Aquiane.
So be it.
That was not despair speaking.
Marcel merely accepted the situation as fact.
After thirty years in politics, he had learned through countless experiences that there were things no human being could control.
Something one might call “fate.”
When the king recovered and Marcel received an order summoning him, he accepted that too as fate.
He would be stripped of the Steward’s office and told to retire.
Or perhaps a slightly harsher fate awaited him.
A man who had occupied the center of power for so long inevitably accumulated enemies.
And as was common among politicians, Marcel could not claim that every act in his career had been spotless.
With a king who disliked him on the throne, his political enemies would have plenty of room to maneuver.
On the road to the Palace of Light, Palais Lumiere, he thought of the family he had left behind at his residence.
Perhaps he would be detained in the palace and subjected to some refined persuasion designed to encourage a confession.
His own life would probably be enough.
But what if it was not?
He had two wives.
A principal wife and a secondary wife.
No.
He had had two wives.
His principal wife gave birth to his daughter.
His secondary wife gave birth to his sons.
His principal wife, who had come from another old count’s house like House Froisbourg, had always been frail and died in childbirth.
His secondary wife was a baron’s daughter who had served as the principal wife’s deeply trusted lady-in-waiting.
Concerned about her own poor health, his principal wife had been the one to recommend the girl to him.
After losing his principal wife, Marcel never took another.
For one of the kingdom’s most powerful nobles, that was highly unusual.
The woman who became his only wife raised Braune alongside the sons she herself had borne.
To Braune, she was a stepmother.
At first, Marcel had worried about that arrangement.
Those fears eventually disappeared.
To his wife, Braune was both the reincarnation of “my lady” and a daughter.
That was what she had become.
She was the child left behind by a closest friend whose bond had transcended rank.
His wife had raised Braune with great affection.
She was to become a lady who could be presented anywhere without shame.
A daughter of the glorious House Froisbourg.
The child left behind by her dearest friend.
And her own daughter.
When Marcel finally reunited with the king in the study after several months apart, Grois’s behavior shattered all his expectations.
The king sincerely apologized for how Marcel had been treated and asked to hear the current state of the kingdom “as Marcel saw it.”
When Marcel attempted to maintain formal restraint, the king practically begged him.
He even took Marcel’s hand and said, “I need your help.”
Those were words a king should never speak.
Yet they were sincere.
Confused by the astonishing change in the king, Marcel nevertheless promised his cooperation.
He returned to his role as the central pillar of Santeneri’s government.
The peace arrangement with Estburg, which had already been discreetly explored, was approved with such little resistance that it was almost anticlimactic.
Reductions and reforms to the army and navy.
The gradual dismantling of the Royal Guard.
Those too were approved with remarkable ease.
Negotiations with the various affected parties were difficult, but once an agreement had been reached, the king did not stop it.
“If everyone has debated the matter fully, then I understand that and command you to proceed accordingly.”
Those words from the king settled matters.
At first, Marcel rejoiced at Grois’s newfound understanding.
Gradually, however, he began to feel uneasy.
If Grois were incompetent and simply did whatever his retainers told him, then that would be fine.
The purpose of retainers was to support such a king.
But Grois XIII—
this twenty-year-old young man who only recently had been capable of little more than chasing fantasies—
now sat on the throne and almost never spoke during formal meetings.
Sometimes he even looked bored as he stared at the pocket watch in his hand.
Yet once the formal council ended and they moved into smaller individual meetings, his attitude changed completely.
He fired sharp questions one after another.
From the substance of those questions, Marcel could tell that the king generally understood what was happening, and sometimes had already seen beyond what his own retainers expected.
His Majesty is wise.
That was something to celebrate.
But it was also dangerous.
An absolute ruler who understood everything, said nothing, and simply watched his retainers move.
There was nothing more frightening.
At times, Marcel even felt as though his every movement was being graded.
A Steward past fifty, being evaluated by a young man thirty years his junior.
And His Majesty does not trust his retainers.
On the surface, the king’s conduct appeared to arise from complete faith in his servants.
Yet Marcel could not escape the opposite impression.
Most of his more perceptive colleagues had sensed that same suspicion, to one degree or another.
The Stewardship and the other great offices of the kingdom were coveted seats.
Many men wanted them.
Marcel himself had won his place only after a long struggle.
He knew there were still many men in the palace maneuvering to take it from him.
Yet he no longer cared what his political enemies were doing.
This chair was extremely uncomfortable to sit in.
If someone else wanted it, Marcel had reached the point where he was willing to let them have it.
◆
By the time Marcel finished explaining the minor incident that had occurred that day, every child of House Froisbourg had gone pale.
The king had been attacked.
That fact alone was a nightmare.
Abominable.
The sacred body of their king had been injured.
And yet their father—and even the king, who had been the victim—intended to pretend it had “never happened.”
Surely high treason should be answered with the harshest punishment.
The brothers, who had long studied politics in preparation for succeeding their father, could just barely understand what Marcel and the king were trying to accomplish.
Emotionally, however, they could not accept it.
But what happened after that made no sense at all.
Why had their father tried to “take responsibility” even at the cost of his own life—and potentially of the entire house?
“His Majesty Grois is a good man. And an exceptionally wise one. No matter what I offered, I do not believe you would ever have been ordered to die.”
Marcel spoke to his wife, his children, and the principal retainers of the house.
Even in the worst case, he had believed that only he himself would die.
Grois XIII was difficult to fathom, but Marcel knew one thing.
The king disliked creating unnecessary disturbances.
If Marcel were granted death, it would probably not take the form of an official criminal punishment.
A cup of poison would be sent to his residence.
His sons’ and daughter’s records would bear no official stain.
His death would be recorded as illness.
That had been Marcel’s calculation.
After all, the king’s body had been harmed.
It would hardly seem unnatural for the Steward, overcome with responsibility, to drink poison.
The king’s body is sacred and inviolable.
And yet, by insisting again that the king impose an “official punishment,” Marcel had plainly lost his composure.
One part of his mind had carefully calculated how events were likely to proceed.
But another part of him had been screaming.
I want to know what the king truly thinks.
And so, despite knowing it was pointless, he had provoked him.
The king’s ensuing explosion had been half expected and half unexpected.
The king who was “an actor perfectly playing the role of king” had thrown that performance aside.
Or perhaps that too was part of the performance.
It was difficult to tell.
But Marcel had considered the possibility that the king might expose his feelings so openly.
No.
He had hoped for it.
That was what Marcel wanted.
What the king’s retainers wanted.
But there had been one statement he had not anticipated at all.
Send Braune to serve at court.
Have her “take care” of him.
◆
“Braune. His Majesty’s command was exactly as I have told you.”
His beloved daughter bit down hard on her lip.
Marcel watched her with eyes full of regret.
“...I understand. I will obey His Majesty’s command, Father.”
“I see. ...You may hate me for this.”
His daughter forced the words out while desperately holding back tears.
Was this too fate?
Marcel had encountered many forms of fate over the years, but this was among the cruelest.
What he had sought—
His Majesty’s true feelings—
had returned to him as his daughter’s humiliation.
“Marcel, Braune, may I say something?”
At the sudden words of the wife who had remained silent until now, father and daughter turned weakly toward her.
Marchioness Felicia en Froisbourg.
Secondary wife of the Steward of the Kingdom of Santeneri.
Now his only wife.
“Did His Majesty say that Braune was to become a servant girl? That she was to become a woman for his pleasure?”
Her gaze was as fierce and piercing as it had been long ago, when she served as lady-in-waiting to Marcel’s principal wife.
“—No. Of course he said nothing so direct. His Majesty would never speak in such crude terms. But surely that is what he meant.”
“Then His Majesty merely said that, because his hands were injured, Braune was to attend to him?”
“Yes! I have told you that repeatedly.”
“His Majesty said he would not punish you because he did not wish Braune to be implicated along with you, did he not? And then he commanded that Braune serve at court.
“So you believe His Majesty intends to keep you in your office as Steward while humiliating your daughter?
“I am merely a woman who understands nothing of politics, so forgive me if I find strange something that must be obvious to men.
“Why would he reduce a woman he said he would not let go to the status of a servant girl?”
Felicia’s expression said plainly:
What nonsense are you talking about?
“Braune. Listen to me.”
She turned her eyes away from her husband and fixed them instead on her daughter.
“This is the story of the daughter of a baron from a mountain village.
“When the girl turned fourteen, she was sent to serve the lord of a large neighboring domain to learn proper manners. The lord’s daughter was exactly the same age as the girl.
“The young lady had been frail since childhood.
“The baron’s daughter, on the other hand, was healthy.
“Their faces, their bodies, even their personalities were complete opposites.
“And yet, somehow, the two became friends.”
Braune listened intently, wiping the tears gathering in her eyes with a cloth.
Her stepmother’s voice was low and soothing.
“The girl would go outside and bring back all sorts of pleasant things to cheer the young lady, who rarely left the house.
“Flowers.
“Sometimes gossip.
“In return, the young lady read many books and told the ignorant girl all about them.
“Then one day, a wonderful marriage proposal came for the young lady.
“The man was the second son of a marquis.
“They married, and the girl accompanied the young lady to the marquis’s household.”
Marcel glanced toward his sons while the mother and daughter spoke.
Their eyes met.
The moment was slightly awkward.
Embarrassing, even.
“The girl and the young lady were friends.
“Their stations were far apart, but in their hearts they were like sisters.
“Then one day, the young lady whispered something to the girl.
“She asked the girl to become her husband’s secondary wife.
“The girl could not answer immediately.
“She and the young lady often spoke about the husband, so the girl knew him well too.
“His virtues.
“His faults.
“—And she understood why the young lady was asking.
“The girl’s feelings.
“And the young lady’s own body.”
Felicia paused there and closed her eyes.
The daughter before her reminded her of “my lady.”
Those gentle, slightly drooping eyes.
That balanced, feminine figure.
That calm manner.
It was her.
And at the same time, Felicia remembered something else.
A skinny little maid—
small and frail-looking, yet overflowing with energy and stubbornness.
“In time, children were born.
“—And the young lady died.
“The maid raised her child.
“Then one day, the husband said something to the maid.
“He asked her to become his principal wife.
“The maid had the audacity to accept on one condition.
“She would do so only if she remained his secondary wife rather than becoming his principal wife.”
Isn’t that right, dear?
Felicia’s eyes settled on Marcel, demanding agreement from her husband.
“Braune.
“You are a daughter of House Froisbourg, a marquisate whose name is known throughout Santeneri.
“So while you remain a noble lady, become a lady-in-waiting as well.
“—Many women have risen from lady-in-waiting to secondary consort.”
Felicia had almost never spoken directly with Grois XIII.
At most, they had exchanged brief greetings.
Based on what she had heard from her husband and from gossip among noblewomen, Grois in his days as Crown Prince had possessed the roughness common to young men, but had never shown any tendency to treat women cruelly.
If anything, he seemed to possess an old-fashioned paternalistic belief that a man proved himself by protecting women.
And Felicia also knew that her daughter had disliked that roughness.
But over the past year, Braune had plainly become drawn to the king.
On days when she met him, she returned home in an unusually cheerful mood, almost giddy.
“His Majesty said this.”
“I did this for His Majesty.”
“His Majesty did this for me.”
The delight with which she recounted every detail of their meetings looked less like attraction to power or status than affection for Grois as an individual.
And judging by Braune’s reactions, the king did not dislike her either.
Even if he held no particularly strong affection for her, it was difficult to imagine that he hated her enough to reduce her to a servant girl and make her do menial labor around the washrooms.
Perhaps the matter was simple.
Maybe the king merely intended to keep Braune close at hand to prevent Marcel from doing anything rash—
such as killing himself or refusing to return to court.
The king himself had practically said as much.
There was no reason not to take him at his word.
“I cannot imagine such a thing happening, but if—if any of the other young ladies should mock you for serving as a lady-in-waiting, you must tell me and your father, Braune.
“—Your father, the Steward of the Kingdom of Santeneri, will absolutely see to it.”
Felicia drove the meaning home with a hard stare at her husband.
Protect Braune.
No matter what.
Her eyes dragged an old memory up from the deepest layers of Marcel’s mind.
A dinner table long ago, on the night he had quarreled with “my lady” over something trivial and made her cry.
The look he had received then from her attendant—
a gaze containing the full weight of the thought:
I will never forgive anyone who hurts my lady.
◆
The king’s private apartments occupied the second floor of the Palace of Light, Palais Lumiere.
“Private apartments” did not mean a single room.
They were an enormous suite consisting of five rooms: a bedroom, study, sitting room, private reception room, and servants’ waiting room.
There, in the short period before breakfast, Grois XIII received an unusual visitor.
Steward Marquis Froisbourg.
Having received word the previous night that Marcel wished to call upon him, Grois had risen slightly earlier than usual and made himself ready.
“Good morning, Steward. I am glad we were able to meet again today safe and sound.”
The moment King Grois entered the reception room where the Marquis waited, he greeted him with exaggerated cheerfulness.
The slight rasp in his voice was probably the result of the previous night’s heavy drinking.
“Good morning, Your Majesty. I am grateful that you have granted me time despite the sudden nature of my request.”
The Marquis carefully observed the king’s face and gestures.
At a glance, this was the “usual king.”
Gentle.
Composed.
“If it is a request from the Steward, naturally I will make time. Yesterday my emotions ran high and I said a number of rude things. I regret that.”
“Your Majesty is too gracious. It was I who committed discourtesy beyond the proper bounds of a retainer.”
“It is difficult, but yesterday was an abnormal situation. Let us both overlook it.
“—Now, what brings you here today? Is it urgent?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I have come to carry out the command you gave yesterday.”
The king’s faint smile froze.
“Ah... yes. Of course, Marquis. I remember. I do remember, but... after thinking about it carefully afterward...”
His voice contained unmistakable confusion, panic, and embarrassment.
Grois XIII almost never showed himself this way.
If the king intended to treat Marcel’s daughter as a servant girl, Marcel had entered this audience prepared for both father and daughter to kill themselves.
For all that he was the king’s Steward, Marcel was still a noble.
And nobles valued honor above all else.
Lady-in-waiting.
Servant girl.
At first glance, the work might appear similar, but the meaning was entirely different.
A lady-in-waiting served close to her master and performed duties resembling those of a secretary, so good birth and intelligence were required.
It was entirely ordinary for a noble daughter to serve as lady-in-waiting in a higher-ranking noble household under the pretext of learning manners.
At the royal palace, daughters from families ranging from knights at the lower end to counts at the upper end came to serve.
In other words, it was not especially different from court service for men.
Though unlike men, daughters of marquises and houses above that rank rarely entered ordinary palace service.
A servant girl, by contrast, did laundry, cleaning, waste disposal, and other practical household work.
A noble daughter could never occupy such a position.
Even wealthy commoners very rarely sent their daughters into service as servant girls.
The role was mostly filled by commoners from the middle classes and below.
They were the people responsible for the practical labor of everyday life.
There was, however, one aspect of a servant girl’s duties that required special mention.
“Attending.”
The Santeneri word for “attending” carried a wide range of meanings.
Preparing meals.
Arranging meetings.
Caring for someone with physical disabilities.
All of it counted as “attending.”
The difficulty was that, alongside those ordinary meanings, the word also possessed a certain euphemistic one.
Sex.
It was never stated in writing, but servant girls were also understood to perform that sort of role.
They were not attached to one particular individual.
In other words, every man who gathered at the royal palace—noble or commoner—was potentially someone they might be expected to “attend,” including, at times, by relieving his sexual desires.
But judging by the king’s reaction, he had no intention of humiliating Marcel’s daughter in that way.
Marcel felt relief in his heart.
His wife had been right.
There had been no need to read so deeply into it.
“I have come today to present my daughter, Braune en Froisbourg, for service at Your Majesty’s side. Please command her to ‘attend’ Your Majesty as a substitute for Your Majesty’s injured hands.”
“Ah. Yes. That.
“Marquis, after thinking about it, Braune is the daughter of a marquis. I realized it would be wrong to make her do something like that.
“I was worked up at the time, and—”
Marcel politely but firmly cut off the king’s weak excuse.
“Your Majesty, Braune is waiting in the antechamber now. May I call her in?”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
The king fell silent.
Despite his age, Marcel found himself watching the king’s panic with a certain amusement.
His Majesty was kind enough to summon Braune out of his own ‘goodwill.’ He must now take ‘responsibility’ for that goodwill.
“Bring Braune in.”
Ignoring the king, who stood there speechless, the Marquis gave the order to a servant.
The door opened.
Braune appeared.
She wore a black, short-sleeved tunic dress.
It was completely undecorated and very plain, yet unmistakably made from high-quality fabric.
There was probably enough material in that one garment to make two or three sets of going-out clothes for commoners.
It could not have been more different from the colorful, luxurious outfits she wore to tea with the king.
Yet the plain black only emphasized the woman’s extraordinary beauty.
Like the dress, she wore no jewelry whatsoever.
Nothing on her fingers.
Nothing around her neck.
Nothing on her arms.
And precisely because there was nothing else there, her fingers, neck, and arms stood out all the more.
White.
Slender.
Soft.
Sweet.
Ladies-in-waiting had no particular uniform.
By the standards of noble daughters, they simply dressed “a little more modestly.”
Jewelry was naturally allowed.
So Braune’s clothing was rather too plain.
It was probably meant to serve as a kind of “base garment,” something normally worn together with dazzling jewelry and a brightly colored large-cloth karul.
Braune had deliberately chosen to wear it alone before the king.
The idea had been her mother Felicia’s.
“Braune...”
The woman stepped forward, stopped before the king, and slowly sank to both knees.
“Braune en Froisbourg, answering Your Majesty’s summons. I wish to serve at Your Majesty’s side with all that I am.”
“Ah, Braune. Please rise.
“...There appears to have been a slight misunderstanding between your father and me. That is...”
The king attempted an explanation, holding his bandaged hands awkwardly in the air.
But Braune, too, politely and firmly cut him off.
“Your Majesty, your injured hands must be terribly inconvenient! Please rest assured. Braune will ‘attend’ you.”
“No, actually, this is not serious at all.
“I simply have a low tolerance for pain and made far too much fuss over a minor injury.
“I was idly playing with a small knife and accidentally cut myself.
“I can be quite careless.”
“I see.
“But from now on, nothing like that will ever happen again!
“Braune will ‘attend’ you.”
Eyes speak as clearly as mouths.
Braune’s blue eyes were saying:
You’re not getting away.