The boat clunked against the dock. The sodden thud reverberating through the crew as much as the boat; it was the first landfall in nearly a month.
The guard on the docks was smaller and more ceremonial than she had anticipated, bedecked in pennants and robes that fluttered in the afternoon wind.
Then again, their two ships were hardly likely to form much of an invasion force, and the clear blue skies here provided scant room for more surreptitious incursion.
The crew of the
Vasa
peered out through the port hatches and lingered at their docking tasks on the deck, despite gruff admonishments to pay attention to their duty. Not many made the trip this far South; curiosity was writ large across their faces.
Alicia shared their curiosity, though for her it was overwritten by apprehension. Unlike the crew, this would be her home for the next two years.
The metal belt encircling her waist made its presence known with each pitch of the ship, something that she had failed to get used to despite the length of the voyage. Her mind drifted back, to the first day she had worn it, as ropes snaked from the ship to the bulwarks and bound them to the dock.
Nearly three months ago now, by her reckoning. Her father, mother, and older brother, in the cosy private chambers the family tower in Sigtuna, in one of their regular informal councils.
"Still. Alicia will have to go."
When her father used that voice, it indicated that the discussion on the matter was over.
They had all suspected that it would come to this. The letter lay on the table to the side. Alicia had hated it, the cold arched script. Unyielding as prison bars.
She was to be sent as ward to Verensus.
Verensus did not threaten them directly - indeed, Rivalt was considered the more powerful - but the borders were indistinct and the alliance had always been fragile. Their request for a ward was unexpected, but not outside the sphere of polite inquiry.
And polite refusal was a possibility. What they knew in this room, and had hoped to keep secret, was that the crops in Rivalt had languished this year. Disruption to the Verensus trade would risk turning a problem into a crisis.
In addition, the Western borders were increasingly fractitious, their own harvests less supplanted by trade. An alliance with Verensus would be beneficial for long-term security.
So she would go.
The terms were unadorned and direct, garnished in flowery epitaphs. She would be delivered as ward until her betrothal was arranged.
It would be in the poorest taste to refer to a ward as a hostage, with physical sanction now the realm of memory. The threat in all such arrangements was the possibility of coerced (or, in extreme cases, uncoerced) marriage, or just as damagingly, the removal of the ward from suitors as a potential marriageable option in the case of incarceration - though marriages could be arranged for a ward, the host would still need to consent to the practical steps to make it reality.
In Alicia's case, her beauty and eighteen years of age made this very much the concern. But one that was outweighed by cold, hard, practical reality.
They discussed potential mitigating arrangements, over the next few days.
It has been her mother who had eventually made the suggestion, with controlled formality, without counselling her. A belt, to protect her honour and reputation alike.
It was an archaic suggestion, but one that found no objection. The preparations had taken on such a surreal, staged quality that this somehow felt like no more farce than the long-forgotten ornate chests that were being dusted down to house her belongings.
So they had looked into it, as naturally as exploring hiring a language tutor, or training in dancing. And in the end, she was visited by an artisanal woman of high rank from the engineering guild.
She was now fitted with a smooth, ironed device cushioned with leather. It had taken a while to get used to the device, but it did leave her free to pass her waste products in peace, whilst protecting her against any access to her private areas.
