She was swimming out beyond the rock wall when the ship appeared on the horizon.
Lucie had of course known that they would arrive today- how could she forget, when the kitchens had been abuzz with activity preparing the traditional meals and sweets for the festivities for days? The maids had been sweeping and cleaning out hearths and long-empty chambers in the diplomatic tower since dawn yesterday, and the streets on the walk down to the water that morning were decked with colourful swathes of gossamer and ribbons. The city was prepared for their arrival.
Lucie was in no hurry; she had several hours still to enjoy the water before she would need to return to the tower and prepare for the ceremony. She dove down to the sandy sea floor and swiped up another mussel then swam to the shore, cracking it open on a stone and draining it of it's juice as she watched the ship getting slowly larger and larger. By the evening, the ship would be sailing out the way it came, one of her cousins aboard.
She scooped the mussel out and sunk her teeth into its rubbery flesh.
~
An hour later, Lucie rushed up the steep twirling steps of the tower and ducked into the door of the scullery, nearly missing a maid carrying a tray of sugar crusted treats from the oven to the stone bench across the room. Near the open fire, Mirtha stood and yelled at another duo of maids who were dripping goose fat onto the floor as they tried to lift the bird up onto the spit.
"Today is the one day we all need to be at our best, Cedrine, we can't have someone slipping on goose fat and splitting their head open in the middle of the scullery!"
She cast a harried glance around, no doubt looking for other calamities she needed to avert, and saw Lucie ducking under the low beamed doorway into the pantry.
"Lucie! Have you got the mussels?"
"Yes, Mirtha," sung Lucie. "It took me three hours of diving and I'm not even close to ready for the ceremony, but I have your mussels."
Mirtha had, in an earlier tragedy, lost the pail of mussels to a befuddled undercook and cupbearer who had come home from a night of drinking, starving for a meal, and hadn't realised their significance.
It had been a long while since the city had seen a royal wedding, so could they really be blamed for not knowing the mussels were the key ingredient in the soup served to the bride and groom immediately after their union was finalised? Mirtha thought they could, and had beaten them with a spoon when she found out.
"It'll be my head on the block, not yours!" she cried as she ran them from the scullery. Lucie had soothed Mirtha, as Mirtha had soothed her so many times in her childhood, and reassured her she could easily harvest the mussels from the shallows beyond the rock wall with plenty of time for the soup to be made.
She was only partly lying- it hadn't been easy but she had enough in the pail she dropped into the pantry to make the soup. It would just have to be a little watery.
"Lucie my sweet child! You are my greatest blessing," Mirtha placed a kiss on Lucie's forehead and held her face against her soft bosom. "Now, go and get dressed. Bulla has laid out your dress and shoes. I'll come and tend to your hair soon."
Lucie did as she was told. Since her mother had died when she was only six years old, Mirtha had been as close to a replacement as she had. When her father had died two years later and her uncle had taken the throne, his wife Saran had hardly risen to the role. She had several girls of her own at that point, and had since rounded out her total brood to twelve, so Lucie told herself she had hardly had the time for another. But really she knew that her uncle would have poisoned his wife to the idea of Lucie. It was written into Sarrenian law that the daughters of a king who was killed in battle would be adopted by his successor and treated as his own. Her uncle had upheld this by not executing or banishing her, and she supposed this was better treatment than many in the western lands could expect, but he had never seen her as his own. As soon as he was crowned, Lucie was moved into a chamber in the servants tower and brought out at formal events, paraded as a symbol of how just and kind her uncle was, then returned to her life in the scullery with Mirtha and a single chambermaid, Bulla, who was barely more than a girl herself, and forgotten about until the next time the king had to signal his virtue.
It was to this end she now headed to her chamber, slipped out of her wet tunic and into her nicest dress, ready to play her part.
~
The hall was full, and more people spilled out onto the square and streets beyond. The royal party would arrive via grand entrance and enter the hall through the vestibule, and the people would be able to see them right up until they entered the hall. There was much chatter as they all waited, amongst noble and common people alike. Lucie was standing with the closest members of the household to the side of the great hall, behind the platform that the princesses would leave their seats and file onto when the king presented them. The king himself was seated at the front of the hall, and his queen Saran beside him.
Across from Lucie were the extended nobility, standing like her facing the central aisle where the foreign royal party would enter and meet the king. Johnes, an advisor of her father who had always cared for Lucie, stood beside her.
"They're coming," Johnes said to her, craning his neck to see out the tall arched window behind them all. "Looks like a small party."
Johnes was soon proven right when the crowd outside began to crescendo, the sound moving like a wave as the royal party approached the entry of the hall. Lucie was keenly anticipating the entry of the Morganian prince and his party. It was an excitement for her, something out of the ordinary to break up her mundane life. She wondered how her cousins were feeling, knowing this was the most important moment of their lives to date. One of them would be leaving Sarren today as a Morganian princess- they must be nervous, Lucie thought. Trumpets sounded outside and Lucie clasped her hands in front of her.
"How will we know what he's saying?" she asked Johnes. "Does he speak Sarrenian?"
"He will bring a translator," Johnes replied. "Your father could have spoken Morganian to him, had he been with us. But a translator will do."
Johnes was fiercely loyal to Lucie's father even in his death. It was why he was no longer a chief advisor but had been relegated to the role of marshal, out in the stables with the horses and pigs. At nearly 55 years old, Lucie had known Johnes all her life.
The doors to the hall swung open and the royal party walked in. Two men led the party, one tall and broad, and one rangier and blonde. Both were dressed in fine furs that were completely out of place in the Sarrenian warmth, but must have been part of the Morganians formal dress. Lucie wasn't familiar with what the intricacies of their dress meant, but surmised that the darker one who walked a pace ahead of the blonde was the prince, the blonde perhaps his steward. The party walked up the aisle and Lucie's uncle the king stood to welcome them.
"Our northern friends, welcome to Sarren."
A small, older man stepped to the side of the man Lucie thought must be the Morganian prince, and spoke to him in a foreign language. The translator, he must be. The prince bowed, and the rest of the royal party took to their knees behind him. When the prince spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, filling the hall although he wasn't speaking particularly loudly. The translator sounded paper-thin in comparison.
"Thank you for this fine welcome, King Ingram. We are honoured."
Lucie's uncle smiled. The novelty of being called King Ingram had never worn off for him in the ten years he'd held the throne.
