The Nightmare Endures
The nightmare did not end there.
Richard was forced to endure the watchful eyes of Marion, Virginia, and the maids for the entire morning. When he protested that their hovering made it impossible for him to work properly, the answer was always the same.
It was true. That was precisely why he wanted to shake off their surveillance. Virginia had claimed she was only trying to maintain a feminine appearance rather than enforce feminine behavior, but he should have recognized that argument for the sophistry it was. A feminine appearance inevitably included feminine conduct.
With nearly the entire upper swell of his breasts exposed and the edge of a corset visible above them, he could not walk quickly. The hem of the skirt was short and fluttering, revealing the lower edge of the petticoat, so he could not stride with any confidence. Moreover, every time the “thin and convenient” dress billowed, the sensation of air slipping between his legs felt truly bizarre.
Wearing hose was no different from not wearing a skirt at all, yet the way the fabric fluttered made him feel utterly naked. Richard found himself forcibly clasping both hands demurely in front of his body. Even sitting offered no relief. Unlike formal court attire, there was no pannier to hold the skirt out, so the slightest parting of his legs was immediately visible beneath the hem. The maids corrected his posture at once.
It was a level of discomfort entirely different from the queen’s ceremonial robes. Richard wanted to scratch his head furiously. That, at least, might have brought some relief, but at the moment he wore an elaborate wig. Though its color was not so different from his natural shade, the lustrous golden-blond hair complemented the white-and-crimson Zylan-style dress he now wore perfectly. The wig was so thick that he could not even scratch his scalp, and every time his hand rose toward it, Virginia’s fiery scolding descended.
“Ah… understood…”
Richard had been born a warrior. Even in situations where resistance was impossible, he displayed a fearsome fighting spirit. This moment was no different. He simply waited for the right time. Believing that the moment to unleash his righteous fury would come soon, he endured the application of cosmetics in silence.
And soon, that moment arrived.
“In truth, Your Majesty originally has no need of such heavy makeup…”
The maid trailed off. Her meaning was obvious. What she had meant to say was surely, ‘You are already so beautiful that makeup is unnecessary, yet it feels a shame to use it merely to conceal the scar upon your dragon eye.’
But Richard deliberately twisted her words.
“Pardon?”
Richard was genuinely furious. In that regard, no acting was required. Yet he had to craft the cause of his anger with care. Even if his performance was clumsy, the maids would likely be deceived. Virginia might feel some doubt, but she would not suspect him outright. Marion, however, would certainly suspect something. To prevent that, he needed to fool everyone else sufficiently.
With the gestures of a truly enraged man, he propped one leg on the stool, rested his elbow upon it, and cradled his chin in his hand while glaring at the maid applying his makeup. The short, fluttering hem of his skirt rode up dangerously high, threatening to reveal even his most intimate undergarments. His face burned with embarrassment, but the thick layer of cosmetics surely hid any change in his complexion. The maids’ reactions alone proved it.
She cried out, her face as pale as a corpse.
He decided to set aside his shame for the moment. Escaping this nightmarish office came first. The maid spoke—or tried to.
Richard shot to his feet and dashed toward the place where his longsword rested. It was quite far, but only one maid stood in his way. He shoved her aside, seized the blade, and drew it.
Simultaneous high-pitched screams from the maids and Virginia filled the office.
The two royal guards stationed at the office entrance burst inside. Seeing Richard with sword drawn, they took up positions beside Marion and the queen respectively and shouted.
At the word “treason,” more royal guards poured into the office. They surrounded Richard, separated Marion and Virginia from the maids, and seized the arms of the maid who had been holding the makeup brush—she had dropped it in terror only moments before. The sergeant of the guard asked him,
“Not precisely… but one could say so.”
Something pricked at his conscience, yet Richard answered that way regardless. He felt sorry for the maid, and for Virginia as well. Expressions of shock and terror were spreading across the faces of the other maids. Richard considered himself a knight among knights; chivalry did not encourage cowardly acts. That fact weighed on his conscience.
But he was desperate enough to ignore it. And the benefit he would gain from this exaggerated, cowardly performance—threatening the maids—was something he could not possibly disregard.
When he asked, color returned to her face. The queen knew her name. She seemed to believe he would spare her.
“Pardon…?”
The blood drained from her face once more. In a cold voice, Richard commanded the guards holding her arms.
Kelly’s legs gave out. The guards’ strong arms did not permit her to collapse to the floor. She stood there, spiritless, unable to do anything. The queen had not asked her name out of mercy. Knowing her status, the deliberate inquiry into both name and rank was to deny her the privileges of nobility. Instead of being investigated and disciplined as a noble, she would be interrogated and punished as a commoner.
Richard apologized to Kelly in his heart. But what good would that do? He knew all too well what fate awaited her. For daring, as a mere commoner, to insult and mock the queen’s dragon eye, her tongue would be cut out. The torture inflicted to extract a confession… even if she confessed immediately, branding and nail-pulling were inevitable.
“Please wait a moment, Your Majesty.”
At that moment, Marion spoke.
“This is a dishonorable affair. It does not bode well.”
Richard asked, “What do you mean?”
“Although the law grants her no title, customarily the cousin of a noble is recognized as possessing noble blood. Is that not so for Dame Virginia here as well?”
At the mention of her name, Virginia flinched but quickly regained her composure. She stepped forward to defend Kelly.
Even in this dire situation where treason was being alleged, she consistently addressed Richard as “my lady” rather than “Your Majesty.” The mere sound of that “my lady” always made him shrink inwardly, and this time was no exception.
“But, Virginia!”
With Virginia’s support, Marion pressed Richard once more.
“Moreover, she has no one to stand as her advocate and speak on her behalf.”
She turned to Kelly. “Isn’t that right, Kelly?”
Richard spoke to Marion in the most mocking tone he could muster.
He had not expected an affirmative answer. Yet she gave one.
It was not only Richard who was shocked. The maids and Virginia were naturally astonished. Even the royal guards shared their surprise. Richard said,
“Of course I know very well.”
When someone of noble birth felt insulted, the only way to restore damaged honor was through blood. And if the one accused of insult believed their actions were justified, they could defend themselves. That process was sanctified in the name of the divine.
In other words, Trial by Combat.
Of course, modern Trial by Combat was no longer the barbaric instrument of murder found in stories from centuries past. A representative of the Church, or one approved by the Church, was mandatory. One had to obey the representative’s choice of weapons and final judgment. Furthermore, unless it involved family vengeance or high treason, the victor was forbidden from killing the defeated without the Church’s permission after the verdict.
Yet no matter the restrictions, a Trial by Combat was still a Trial by Combat. No one could predict what misfortune might befall the queen’s sacred person should she personally enter the arena, no matter how strong she was. Moreover, the defendant’s advocate was the queen’s own consort, and the defendant was one of the queen’s maids.
The royal guards were primarily stunned by the former fact, while the maids and Virginia were stunned by the latter. Richard spoke again.
She had irritated his nerves many times both before and after their marriage. But she had never spoken words that scraped his nerves quite like this. His face twisted violently as he strode toward her. The royal guards tried to restrain him, urging caution, but he shoved them aside and closed the distance.
Marion was tall—nearly six feet. By contrast, Richard had originally stood at five feet ten inches, an inch shorter than the current Marion. Now, having lost nearly half a foot, he measured only five feet four inches. Even in high-heeled shoes, he had to look up at Marion, whose eyes hovered near the crown of his head. The sight stirred deep-seated fear within him, just as it had the previous week.
But he was a knight. A knight was a knight precisely because he mastered his own fear. He confronted that terror with dignity. And once confronted, the fear proved to be nothing at all.
In truth, Marion was feeling fear as well—perhaps even greater fear. It was only natural; neither as a man nor as a woman had she ever suffered the kind of violence Richard had inflicted. She struggled not to avert her gaze as she answered.
Richard’s face hardened like stone. His hands were truly trembling. This was an exceedingly dangerous statement. It was tantamount to declaring to his face, ‘What you are doing is conscienceless and cowardly.’
Of course, Marion had not spoken those words without reason. She had made a calculation. No matter how hot-blooded the knight Richard might be, if she appealed to his conscience in front of so many people, he would likely pardon Kelly in order to preserve his dignity. Moreover, during last week’s coronation, she had insulted him far more gravely, and he had endured it in silence. Therefore, the possibility that he would show mercy this time as well seemed more than sufficient.
At least, that was what she genuinely believed.
The maids openly displayed admiration for Marion. But the royal guards, Virginia, and Richard himself revealed open hostility toward her. The desire to display a sense of justice was human nature; Marion’s actions were not incomprehensible. Yet no matter that he was her husband, such an attitude was not one a vassal should show before the Queen of Zylan.
Of course, among them, only one person held a status high enough to express that sentiment openly—the sole individual higher in rank than Prince Consort Marion of Zylan: Richelle, Queen of Zylan herself.
She gave a scornful laugh and said to Marion,
But Richard did not act according to Marion’s calculations. He was that furious. Moreover, any generous, manly impulse to forgive had completely dried up within him. And why would it not? After all, the very person who had orchestrated his current feminine adornment was Marion herself.