Joan Pickart - Royal Weddings

He reached for the towel, dried those big hands. “He’s been dead for almost a decade.”

“But do you miss him?”

He hung the towel on its little hook beneath the cabinets. “You behave like an American.” He made it sound like some crushing insult.

She sat up straighter in her chair. “I am an American.”

His sculpted mouth curved. Too bad it was more a sneer than a smile. “In Gullandria, the lowliest of the low will know which questions should never be asked. In Gullandria, we do not presume to ask after the dead loved ones of people we hardly know.”

Wow. Two whole sentences. The man was a chatterbox, no doubt about it. And he also had a truckload and a half of nerve, to imply that she was presumptuous, when he wouldn’t let her make a call without listening in on her speakerphone.

She kept after him. “So. You’re sensitive on the subject of your father. Why is that?”

He stood there by the sink, big and broad and silent, looking at her. But she was becoming accustomed to his eagle-eyed stare. She stared right back. And she waited.

At last, he shrugged. “My father was a Wyborn. My mother was not.”

She was getting the picture. “They weren’t married when you were born?”

“That’s right. They were never married. I am a fitz . For future reference, during your stay in Gullandria, when you hear that a man’s name begins with Fitz , you will know that man is a bastard. You might think twice before asking after his family.”

“Thank you.” She gave him the most regal of nods. “I’ll remember that.”

“The prefix Fitz ,” he informed her in scholarly tones, “is one known to many lands. A child of King Henry the Eighth comes to mind. You’ve heard of Henry the Eighth, second of the Tudor kings of England?”

“Yes, Hauk,” she said dryly. “Even rude Americans take history in school.”

“A barmaid gave King Henry a son. The barmaid named the child for his father. Henry FitzRoy. The literal translation of Fitz is son of. Thus, Henry, son of—”

“—the king,” she finished for him. Her mother had told her many things about her homeland. But not this painful little detail. “Is there some reason, now, in the twenty-first century, to…label a person that way?”

“In Gullandria, we treasure the family. Life can be hard and short—not so much in recent decades, since we discovered we are rich in oil and have a valuable commodity to trade for the comforts of the modern world. But it was not always so.

“Over the generations, we have learned to count on one another. Loyalty and honor always come first. Marriage is a sacred trust. Once his wife has given him children, a man cannot divorce. With so much value on the family, it is seen as an offense against the continued survival of our people to bring children into the world without the sacrament of marriage. Certain doors are always closed to bastard children.”

“But why? It’s not the child’s fault that his parents weren’t married.”

“It’s nothing to do with who is at fault. There’s an old saying. Don’t bicker over blame while the house burns .” He came toward her. “You have finished your meal?”

She stared up at him, feeling, for the first time, a certain softening toward him. “What doors are closed to you, Hauk?”

He asked again, “Have you finished?”

She looked down at the bit of uneaten sandwich. “Sure, I’m finished. With lunch.”

He took her plate and her glass to the sink, dumped the crust in and ran the disposal. Then he rinsed her dishes and put them in the dishwasher with his.

“Hauk?”

He turned to her and folded his huge arms over his chest. The early-afternoon sun slanting in the window made his hair shine as though it were spun from real gold.

“What doors are closed to you?”

Now, instead of staring her down, he seemed to be studying her. She knew a certain feeling of warmth inside as she saw that she had found it, the key to having an actual conversation with him. If they spoke of Gullandria, if he thought he might impart to her things she would need to know as the daughter of his king, he was willing to talk.

He asked, “Do you understand the rules of Gullandrian succession?”

“I think so.” She repeated what her mother had told her long ago. “All male jarl —” she pronounced it yarl , as her mother had taught her “—and jarl means noble, both singular and plural—are princes, technically eligible to claim the throne when the current king dies or is no longer capable of ruling. When that happens, the jarl convene in the capital city of Lysgard and each casts a vote. The winner is the new king. The vote itself—as well as the ceremony surrounding it—is called the kingmaking.”

Hauk dropped his hands to his sides. She could have sworn he almost smiled. “Very good. You have it nearly right.”

“Nearly?”

“Not all male jarl are princes. Only all legitimate male jarl.”

“You’re saying that you, Hauk FitzWyborn, could never be king.”

“That’s correct. Not that I would get any real chance to be king—let alone even want to be king—were I legitimate in the first place. But were I not a fitz, to be chosen king would at least be a theoretical possibility.”

“What about your children?”

He looked rather pleased. “Good question. As far as my children go—and still, remember, speaking the-oretically—everything can be different for them.”

“You mean, if you marry, then the sons your wife gives you would be eligible when the kingmaking comes around again.”

“That’s right—given that my wife is jarl herself.” It suddenly occurred to her that he might be married right now. That shocked her, for some reason. Nothing personal, she hurried to reassure herself silently. It wasn’t about being… interested in him, as a man.

No. Of course not.

It was only that he didn’t seem married. Just as she couldn’t picture him as a vulnerable little boy with parents who took care of him, she had trouble seeing him with a wife, with children of his own.

She couldn’t resist asking. “Are you? Married?”

“No. And I have no children, either. I will never have children, unless I first have a wife. That is the lesson a fitz always learns and thus, in Gullandria, bastard children are rare.”

“So then,” she said gently, “you’ll never be king. But your children might.”

“They might. But again, it’s not likely. Families hold tight to ground they have gained. The sons of kings tend to become kings. They are groomed from birth with the throne in mind. Your brother, Prince Valbrand…” Hauk paused, fisted a hand at his heart and briefly bowed his head in what was clearly a gesture of respect for someone greatly valued and tragically lost. “Your brother was born to rule. He was wise beyond his years, a good and fair man. Gullandria would have prospered under him as she has thrived under His Majesty, your father.” Something had happened in Hauk’s cool eyes. For the first time, Elli saw that he did have a heart and that he had admired—even loved—her brother.

Her own heart contracted. “He was…good? My brother?”

“Yes. A fine man. The Gullandrian people felt pride that someday he would rule. Jarl and freeman alike knew a steady confidence in the future he would make for us all.”

“And my other brother, Kylan?”

Hauk shrugged. “He was a child when we lost him. Barely in his fifth year.”

“But…did you ever see him? Do you remember anything about him?”

After a thoughtful pause, he said, “Young Prince Kylan was strong and well made. He had the dark hair and eyes of the Celts—as did Prince Valbrand, as does His Majesty, your father.”