Ah, well, no matter. You will. He is coming ever closer.
SIX
“La volta! La volta!” a voice shouted as the last notes of the galliard faded.
Gasps rose from some of the older revelers. They were followed by laughter, whistles, even a few raucous catcalls from the younger ones.
If the galliard was a risqué dance, the volta was downright scandalous. It was a beautifully choreographed duel of desire. One partner advanced, the other retreated. One swayed close, the other turned away. Every glance was a provocation; every smile, a dare.
Music beckoned the dancers. Partners were sought. The flickering light of a thousand candles played over the faces of the guests and made their silk gowns and satin jackets shimmer. Jewels cascaded down powdered bosoms. Pearls as big as cherries dangled from earlobes. Gem-studded rings barnacled every hand.
The princess was standing off to one side of the Great Hall, trying not to gulp down a glass of punch. She was flushed and breathless, for she’d danced with passion and grace all night long, earning herself approving glances from her stepmother. The gown she was wearing, of the deepest plum, set off her black hair and green eyes. The color was high in her cheeks.
She laughed. Fetchingly. Musically. Extravagantly. Her head back, a jeweled hand at her pretty throat. And she talked. Incessantly. About anything. Or nothing at all. Boys, shoes, cakes, dresses … It didn’t matter. Talk a lot, laugh a lot, and you could drown out the noise made by the shattered, jangling pieces of your broken heart.
A small boy, brutalized. Innocent hounds, dead. When she thought of Tom and the dogs he’d loved, it felt as if each one of those jagged shards were trying to work its way out of her chest, piercing her flesh and drawing blood.
So she didn’t think of him. She pushed him from her mind, set her glass down, and snapped her fingers at a serving boy to fill it, just as her step-mother would have done. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t having a good time; the important thing was that she appeared to be.
Rodrigo approached her and made fun of Haakon; she laughed and joined in. Hussein, the sultan of Asir’s son, handed her a rose and asked her to dance. She refused it and teasingly told him to come back with two dozen. Alexander, a Hinterlands duke, offered her a sweet; she fed it to a spaniel.
The serving boy returned with her drink, but before she could take it, a voice behind her said, “Princess Charlotta-Sidonia Wilhelmina Sophia of the Greenlands, punch is for children.”
Sophie turned. Haakon stood there, smiling. He was dressed in moss-green velvet, his blond hair long and loose around his shoulders. He was so beautiful, the mere sight of him made Sophie catch her breath.
“Try this,” he said, thrusting a glass of champagne into her hands. “Thank you, my lord, but I cannot,” Sophie said, trying to hand it back. “Champagne makes my head spin. It is the undoing of me.”
But Haakon wouldn’t take the glass back. “Well then, you cannot have me, either,” he said. Quite loudly. “For I will make your heart spin.” He tugged at the knot in the bottom of the silver laces that ran down the side of Sophie’s bodice. “And that will be the undoing of you.”
Gasps of surprise were heard. Sophie blinked, a bit taken aback herself. This is very cheeky, she thought. Even for Haakon. Well, she would play along. She had to. All eyes were on her. Her stepmother, the court … They expected a performance. They wanted a joust. And she would give them one. She knew that if she gave in to her shyness, if she ducked away blushing, she would be summoned, once again, to her stepmother’s chambers.
“Shouldn’t I want you, sir? Before I have you?” she boldly retorted. Scandalized oohs and aahs rose from the crowd.
Haakon feigned hurt. He banged his own glass down on a table. “Proud princess, do not scorn my declaration of love! Your words are a dagger to my heart!”
Sophie arched an eyebrow. “Ah! So you have one? I have heard the opposite.”
“From whom? Show me the knave and … and”—Haakon looked around, snatched something from the table, and thrust it into the air—“I’ll run him through!”
Sophie laughed. She couldn’t help it. “With a pickle?”
He brandished it at her. “Tell me! Who said I have no heart?”
“Every girl at court, Your Highness. For you have wooed them all.
Wooed, won, and declared yourself done.”
“That is a killing blow, heartless lady!” Haakon staggered backward theatrically, then fell to the floor, limbs splayed, eyes closed.
Sophie rolled her eyes. She’d had enough. This was becoming a full-blown farce, and the effort of maintaining it was draining her. She leaned over him, careful not to spill the champagne she was still holding, and in a strained voice said, “Haakon, do get up. You’re making a scene.”
Haakon opened his eyes. “Dance with me. Or I’ll make a bigger one.”
“No.”
Haakon let out a long, trailing howl. “A beautiful maiden’s careless cruelty has mortally wounded me!” he cried.
“Stop it right now!” Sophie hissed.
He stretched out his hand and said, “And only her kindness can restore me.”
Sophie softened a little at that. She drank the champagne all in one gulp, put the glass down, and then reached for him. One dance, she thought, and then I’ll find a dark, quiet corner. Haakon tossed his pickle, grabbed her hand, and sprang to his feet. There was laughter and applause. Amid knowing glances, he escorted Sophie to the dance floor.
The volta had started. The drumbeats, loud and insistent, were calling out their challenge. The dancers turned swiftly clockwise, then counter, and then, with a crash of tambourines, the women leapt high, the men lifting them up, whirling them through the air. There were whoops and shouts of laughter. Skirts flared. Hair came unpinned. The dance floor was a crush of movement.
Haakon pulled Sophie right into the middle of it.
The tempo picked up. The dancers whirled around each other again, faster and faster. Sophie felt a little giddy; the champagne had gone to her head. It was all she could do not to step on Haakon’s toes. Or her own.
Then he pulled her close to him, so close it made her catch her breath. They turned in a circle; then Sophie leapt, and as she did, Haakon lifted her high into the air. She felt as if she were flying. The spinning, the pounding of feet, the quickening tempo—they took her breath away. Haakon’s nearness, the smell of him, the warmth of his breath on her cheek, made her dizzy. His hands felt like a band of fire around her waist. And then the dance ended. The music stopped, and the dancers, flushed and laughing, clapped loudly and broke apart.
Haakon leaned forward, his hands on his knees to catch his breath.
Then he looked up at Sophie and said, “Run away with me.”
Sophie reddened at his forwardness but tried to cover her blushes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said airily, as if handsome boys asked her to run off with them every day of the week.
“I’ve never been more serious. Either we run, right this second, or your next dance partner is Barse.”
“Barse?” Sophie echoed, appalled. Barse was a sullen young man, an earl’s son from the provinces. He picked his nose and taught filthy words to small children. “Barse doesn’t dance.”