A Contract Marriage for Attilenta's Revenge — Episode 24
At Warsza's beckoning, Sir Krakow, who had been standing quietly by the curtains of the balcony, stepped forward and offered her a slender glass filled with clear liquor.
Warsza set Mari down on the floor with an exceedingly gentle hand, took a sip, and at the end of her clean, unhurried movements let out a short sigh.
"So in the end, haah, I suppose he didn't like the idea of me marrying into the Opole family."
Henrik studied his younger sister's complexion carefully and gave a small nod. Those amethyst eyes that usually gleamed as brilliantly as the lights illuminating this banquet hall were now clouded with unmistakable fatigue.
Warsza's fiancé was the second son of the Opole family, a house regarded as one of the current king's most loyal pillars of support.
"The Young Duke of Winnica, hmm... His standing is quite respectable."
In high society as well, the young Duke of Winnica of the Opole family was widely renowned as a capable civil administrator. Nor was that all.
By Henrik's own assessment, the man had an unassuming, modest air about him — the sort who never drew too much attention to himself.
That was precisely as it should be. If Henrik was to become king one day, then Warsza's husband could not be someone too conspicuous or ambitious.
A son of the Opole family, at least, seemed well suited to quietly bolstering Warsza's standing without overshadowing it.
"So he's joined hands with the Head of the Biauby Family."
"Honestly, he never changes."
Warsza, who had taken another sip of her drink, shook her head. Had this been her own private space, her expression would have been one of outright squirming disgust.
The nobles below would hardly dare to gawk openly at two members of the royal family, but even so, Warsza did not let her composure slip for an instant.
"He's checking me while also keeping a wary eye on the family you're about to join."
Judging by Henrik's read of the situation, it was, on the surface, a decent little conspiracy. To ruin a princess's marriage prospects by smearing her with the image of a woman who couldn't even handle one person properly.
If a servant stole a jewel, it tarnished the master's honor as well. All the Biauby family had to do was buy a person, tidy up the aftermath, and plead ignorance.
"Look how diligently he works to ruin my image."
Warsza gave a slight shudder of her shoulders, and memories of the past rose unbidden. It had happened when she was even younger than she was now.
At a small gathering hosted by the daughter of a noble house colluding with the Biauby family, Warsza had been handed a dress code different from everyone else's.
It was a spiteful little scheme, meant to paint her as a princess who was young, inexperienced, and hopelessly ignorant of fashion. With Henrik's discreet help she had navigated through it, and afterward she had confronted the hostess directly.
The woman had been clever about it, of course — bowing her head and pleading that she would never dare such a thing against Her Highness the Princess, that it was purely her own mistake and she was deeply sorry. Arranged so that any stern interrogation from Warsza would be difficult.
Not long after, word reached her that the woman, in a towering rage, had mercilessly beaten the maid responsible for delivering the invitation and thrown her out without a single coin.
"And to think he plays the hearty, magnanimous lord on the surface."
Warsza took another sip and furrowed her brow slightly. For some reason, today's drink tasted a touch more bitter than usual.
"Still, we did catch the mouse... so I suppose that's something to be thankful for?"
"Warsza, your reputation won't suffer for this."
"This is exactly why I keep saying one has to handle people properly. Though you're quite good at it yourself, brother."
Henrik soothed his sister's foremost worry first. Even when Warsza pushed back once out of modesty, his attitude did not waver.
"Warsza. As long as it wasn't something someone deliberately staged, you've done more than well enough."
In the end, Warsza laughed lightly, scooped up Mari as the cat rubbed against her legs, and settled comfortably into the plush sofa.
Even if further trouble bubbled up from this affair, she had faith that her brother would smooth it all over.
"Thank you for such a kind word. Though, speaking of which..."
Warsza narrowed her eyes as she added,
"You didn't orchestrate this yourself, did you, brother? The person I know doesn't go searching for someone in such a loud, dramatic fashion."
"Rain told me."
"You two seem to get along rather well, don't you?"
At the blunt question, Henrik fell into brief thought.
No — there was hardly anything to deliberate at all.
"Very much. She's fascinating."
With his intimate younger sister, Henrik was in high spirits at the prospect of laying out his honest feelings about that woman. The words he spoke aloud settled into him with an ease and willingness that surprised even himself.
Come to think of it, he had said something similar to Sir Krakow not long ago — that she was amusing, like watching a prickly little animal.
"Has that been true since the first time you met her?"
Henrik remembered clearly the day he had first laid eyes on her. Her appearance — gaunt and skeletal, quite apart from anything her words or bearing suggested.
Looking back, he could easily have mistaken her for someone not yet of age by Bwendowskan standards.
He had been told in advance, of course, that she was the lady divorced from the Duke of Francia.
But the moment he saw her, Henrik had thought: the Duke truly had peculiar tastes. Even granting that, the truth of it had been utterly lost on him at the time.
"She didn't strike me as merely demure, that's for certain."
Henrik agreed with Warsza's assessment. She was a woman of clear purpose and firm will — resolute to the bone.
Though whenever her homeland or her former husband came up, she turned colder than anyone.
Henrik knew. One might be tempted to call her rational and composed on the surface, but in truth her purpose was profoundly, fiercely emotional.
She intended, quite simply, to exact her revenge upon those who had abandoned her.
"You must have thought the same as I did, Warsza."
Stroking the purring Mari with an affectionate hand, Warsza slowly parted her lips.
"Hmm. And do you think that will keep holding true?"
Henrik understood his sister's meaning. It was a worry — whether his choice, made for political reasons, to bring that woman in would continue to serve him well.
As his sister saw it, there was ample room for Francia — that woman's foreign relatives — to tack on any manner of demands going forward.
But in truth, that woman thought of nothing but tearing her homeland apart. Henrik had tied the first knot well, and he believed she would tie every one that followed just as carefully.
"There's nothing to worry about, Warsza."
After all, Attilenta carried a disgrace so heavy that she could not even set foot in a banquet of her own homeland — and so, if anything, it worked in their favor.
Besides, Henrik had no intention of granting any easy honor or power to a woman the King had so conveniently handed over.
Warsza whispered, very quietly.
"Did the King send her over right away?"
"Without a moment's hesitation — he practically welcomed it. I must have been quite the thorn in his side, so it was the natural reaction."
Warsza stopped the hand that had been stroking the cat and looked up at Henrik with a strange gleam in her eyes.
"A princess the King doesn't cherish. How remarkable."
The banquets there were a constant parade of noble daughters flaunting their beauty. Henrik had never actively engaged in such games, but neither had they ever bothered him much.
One thing was certain: to that King, his youngest princess had never been among the options at all.
Looking at the outcome, the King's indifference had turned out to be a very good thing — for Henrik, and for her alike.
"Brother. The way I feel about it... I think there was another reason you took an interest in her."
Henrik recalled the bloodstains that had remained in the washroom. She had scrubbed at them diligently, by the look of it. He could still vividly hear the sound of her violent coughing as she had slipped into the washroom without his knowledge.
He understood her intent to conceal it, and so had said nothing — but no one in his palace could hope to hide anything from him.
"The way she hides her condition and pushes herself to keep her word — that's what caught my attention."
"Most people would rest when they're ill."
"People who don't are rare."
"When I so much as cough, everyone around me throws a fit. And honestly, there'd be no need to hide it anyway, would there? It's a chance to cultivate that delicate, fragile-lady image."
"True. The last time I saw that kind of stubborn will was on the battlefield."
Henrik did not pity her, not even lightly. She was not the sort to want cheap sympathy in the first place.
"Then was her appearance... to your taste, brother?"