Prologue
"You proposed to the wrong person? Have you lost your mind?"
The tone suggested there were mix-ups, and then there was this.
"And not just any mix-up—you meant to propose to the princess and hit the queen instead? You really are something special."
Haa.
I let out a long sigh. As if I'd seen any of this coming.
A damp underground dungeon. Shackles around my ankles. Rats skittering and squeaking in the dark.
How in the world had I ended up like this?
My cellmate asked again.
"But then why are you in prison? Sure, proposing to the wrong woman is bad, but that's hardly jail time."
"Well, you see."
I hesitated for a second over whether I should say it, but what did it matter? The man was serving a life sentence. Nothing I told him was getting out of here.
"I got caught having an affair with the princess."
"…"
"Haa. I told myself desks were a terrible idea, but did I listen?"
A stretch of silence. My cellmate seemed to be choosing his words with care. Only after a long while did he open his mouth again.
"…You. You're lucky to still be breathing. The queen must love you something fierce. That witch left you alive—that says everything."
"Of course. We adore each other to death."
"…And a man like that still goes and cheats."
The cell fell quiet once more. This time, the silence didn't last.
"You said you used to be a pirate, didn't you?"
Contempt dripped from every word.
"This is exactly why decent folk don't associate with pirate scum. Don't talk to me."
"Old man?"
I called him a few more times. No answer.
Damn it. There went my only conversation partner.
As for how everything had gone so spectacularly wrong—well.
It was all because of that proposal. If only it hadn't been sent to the wrong person.
"I beg your pardon? Young master? A proposal?"
"Yeah. Right now—urp—immediately!"
The butler was thoroughly flustered. The banquet had barely ended, and now the young master was suddenly demanding a marriage proposal.
The young master, roaring drunk and shouting at the top of his lungs.
"Y-Young Master Henry. Please calm yourself for a moment. To whom, exactly, am I meant to propose?"
"Tudor—urp. Send it to Tudor."
Henry had already made a private promise to the princess of the neighboring kingdom—Princess Elizabeth Tudor. He intended to propose to her properly, in writing.
Watching his young master collapse face-first onto the bed, the butler reluctantly picked up a sheet of letter paper.
Could this even be cleaned up afterward? Had he secured the duke's permission?
He was worried—but still. Just in case. It might truly be urgent.
Politics is always a race against the clock, after all.
So he hastily drafted a proposal letter. There was just one problem.
Which Tudor?
In the neighboring kingdom, two Tudors existed.
Princess Elizabeth Tudor.
And her mother, the queen—Mary Tudor.
The butler asked Young Master Henry once more.
"Ah, young master. Which Tudor did you mean?"
Unfortunately, the young master never heard the question. All that escaped him, thick with liquor, was the crude mouth of a pirate through and through.
"Mother…"
What he meant was: What the hell kind of booze is this strong?
The butler, however, took it as an answer.
Ah. The mother, then.
And so the letter arrived at the queen of the Lancart Kingdom.
Mary Tudor.