The Midwinter Ball

‘And waves shall e’er crash against

the far shores of fair Velgrave.

But ne’er again my heart will sing

for the sea it stole my love.’

A thunderous chorus of applause rose up from every corner of the resplendent, marble-columned ballroom as the soft tones of Vivaene’s voice drew silent. So nervous was the young courtier that she felt like jolts of lightning were coursing through her body. There was no mistaking, though, the fact that her audience had loved her song, no matter how out of place it’s melancholy weight might have seemed. In every direction she looked the familiar faces of King Carrick’s court beamed up at her, as did a fair few unfamiliar ones. Rarely had she seen the palace’s vast ballroom so full, but that was only to be expected. Every year, like birds flying south, foreign dignitaries, local recluses, and distant relations of this or that courtier would flock to the King’s midwinter ball. Like the ducks Vivaene often fed in the palace gardens swarming their crumbs of stale bread, the assorted nobility of the realm seemed unable to resist the prospect of sharing some small portion of their sovereign’s bounty and competing for his attention and favour. This year, as the court also celebrated a prince’s coming of age, so many immaculately groomed noblemen and highborn ladies clad in dazzling dresses had answered the call that it seemed one could scarcely take three steps without tripping over a fellow attendee.

Being asked to sing for such a grand occasion, to preform for hundreds of the most prominent lords and ladies in the nation, had been every bit as much a great honour for Vivaene as it had been a cause for sheer terror. Since she was a little girl the young courtier had known she had a lovely voice, everyone always told her so when they heard her sing, but she was no more accustomed to putting on such a display of her talent than she was to flying or going off to war. For weeks she had lived in a state of near-constant dread of everything that could possibly go wrong, spending each and every moment she could steal away from her duties on practice and waking up nearly every night from nightmares of the humiliation and disgrace that would follow should she falter up on stage.

At last, though, the time had come and somehow she hadn’t messed up. By some miracle of miracles she had delivered the most flawless performance even a professional minstrel could have hoped for. As she basked in the praise rising up from cheery folk all around it was as if the invisible hand that she had felt pressing down on her shoulders since the day she was first asked to sing was suddenly lifting her up instead. When, from his seat up on the royal dais, Vivaene’s liege lifted his ornate goblet her way in salute, she could have sworn she was about to fly. Never in all the years she had spent at court had the monarch’s eyes lingered on her for more than a moment at a time. And why should they have? King Carrick was well past the age at which men made sport of chasing the ladies of the court, and she was a maiden of no particular noteworthiness. A minor courtier with more wealth than noble blood, she had been lucky to be granted the honour of serving as a handmaiden to one of his daughters. In the wake of her song, though, he seemed to notice the unassuming girl for the first time, granting her a kind, fatherly smile that made her heart soar. Beside him his queen beamed on as well, radiant in a gem-studded gown of silvery satin. Unlike her husband, Vivaene was known to the matriarch already, having carried messages between her and her daughter on several occasions.

Breathless, from relief as much as the exertion of singing, the flushed maiden gave a deep formal curtsy towards the royal couple before turning and making her way towards the edge of the ballroom’s raised stage. By the time she reached a waiting servant and accepted his assistance in stepping down to the main floor, the minstrels who had accompanied her were already striking up a new, more festive tune. In the time it took her to reach the ground a small crowd had already gathered, lords and ladies alike expressing their approval of her performance. Never in all her life had Vivaene felt so popular as she did in that moment. She was well enough liked around the palace, able to count more friends than rivals with no true enemies to speak of, but seldom found herself at the center of attention. As neither the prettiest of maidens nor the best connected she tended to fade into the background, especially on such lively occasions. For one night, though, it seemed she might well be the belle of the ball.

In the process of extricating herself from her swarm of newfound admirers, Vivaene had to turn down requests for a dance from no fewer than three men of not insubstantial station. Being courted wasn’t an entirely novel experience for her, a few suitors had sought her hand in the five years since she was first introduced to the court, but never had men competed over her attention. Were she a more ambitious girl, she would certainly have seized the moment and accepted one of the three offers. As things were, though, Vivaene had other plans and so demured, promising a few dances later in the evening which may or may not come to pass but insisting that for the moment she was much too drained for such excitement and required rest and refreshment.

The most persistent of the gentlemen, a handsome widower in his thirties whom Vivaene had crossed paths with on a few previous occasions, invited her to instead join him at his table then. Fortunately, she was spared having to concoct a suitable excuse for turning him down by the timely arrival of Lady Olaeve. A gracefully aging noblewoman clad in a magnificent outfit of white and silver that both perfectly suited her platinum blonde hair and nearly rivaled the queen’s own outfit for intricate grandeur, Olaeve was a cousin of Vivaene’s late mother and something of a mentor and sponsor to the young handmaiden. At her arrival the determined widower gracefully withdrew in deference to her claim upon her relative’s attention, but only after promising to seek out his newfound quarry later in the evening.

Grateful for Olaeve’s intervention, whether intentional or not, the younger lady curtsied low enough for the hem of her own emerald gown to momentarily brush across the gleaming tiles of the ballroom floor before rising up to give the taller woman an affectionate hug. The pair talked briefly while the crowd around them dissipated, about the song Vivaene had chosen and her mother’s own talent for music, but it wasn’t long before the younger lady again made her excuses and took her leave, gracing her mentor with a fond peck on the cheek before she departed.

Eager to escape before yet more admirers could appear, the modest handmaiden made swiftly for the opposite end of the ballroom where her exit awaited. She made but slow progress, however, due to the series of acquaintances who stopped her in order to tender their own congratulations as she passed. Their numbers included Adain, the most recent lordling to have briefly courted her before he instead elected to do the honourable thing and marry one of her friends who had caught child as result of a previous tryst, Count Roathe, an aging warrior and friend of her father’s whose intricate, rose patterned tunic was weighed down by countless medals and ribbons honouring his various exploits, and of course Princess Lynnaie, the young lady upon whom Vivaene waited night and day. A handmaiden couldn’t ask for a gentler, kinder mistress than the fourteen year old, though, and she loved the girl dearly.

Tall for her age and rather willowy, Lynnaie wore a long, ornate dress of deep cobalt blue trimmed in golden thread that perfectly matched the silky blonde locks Vivaene had brushed for her a thousand times or more. Ignoring their disparate stations for the moment, the young princess rose to her toes and enfolded her favourite servant in a lingering hug. “You were magnificent, Vi. Half these lords and ladies will want to steal you away from me now.”

“I would never abandon you, milady,” the older handmaiden assured her mistress, gently disentangling herself until they stood face to face, if more closely than proper protocol would dictate.

“Ah, but you must,” the teen smiled ruefully, as ever possessing the poise and gravitas of a woman twice her age. “Whether the day comes soon or late, eventually some lord will make an honest wife of you. And a lucky man he will be. I only pray that day comes after I have been wed myself. I would not face such a trial without you at my side.”

Vivaene blushed demurely at the princess’s unfiltered thoughts. She may not be as a young as her mistress, but neither was she yet eager to trade the excitement and intrigue of court life for the tedious duties of managing a husband’s household, let alone those of rearing his heirs. Lynnaie, though, seemed always to be thinking of the future and often discussed such matters with her cadre of attendants. “In that case, I expect I shall remain in your service some years yet, milady.”

“Let us hope so, dear Vivaene,” the princess answered, her faint smile suddenly growing as she leaned in even closer and lowered her voice. “Now that you’ve entertained us, are you off to the kitchens for your favourite treat?”

Her young mistress’s inquiry set Vivaene’s cheeks flushing full scarlet. Before she could open her mouth to answer though, the girl let out a tiny, lilting laugh that drove home just how young she really was. “I thought so. Well, I seem to have forgotten my lucky necklace. If anyone asks after you, I’ll tell them you went upstairs to fetch it for me, shall I?”

Straightening up to her full height and slipping into her most imperious posture, Lynnaie spoke a little louder than was strictly necessary.