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The Emerald Princess

This was torture, being forced to sit still while her attendants yanked her hair into tight braids as they tried their best to transform her into a proper princess.

Issylte yearned to be astride her horse, galloping towards the forest, the chilly wind whipping her hair and stinging her cheeks with glorious freedom.

Instead, she had to endure the agony of her long blonde hair being plaited with ribbons of emerald silk and sparkly gold thread.

Because her father’s betrothed was arriving today with an entourage of royal courtiers and servants.

And Issylte had to appear perfect when presented to the woman who would become her stepmother and queen.

She shuddered at the thought.

The entire castle was ablaze with activity in preparation for the upcoming royal wedding between Issylte’s father, King Donnchadh of Ireland, and Princess Morag of Scotland.

The royal marriage would create an alliance between the two kingdoms and bring an end to the twelve long years of her father’s solitude since the death of his wife, Queen Liadan, during Issylte’s birth.

Father deserves to be happy, Issylte thought begrudgingly, flinching as her ladies in waiting stuffed her into an elaborate, elegant, dark green gown.

She glanced over at the seamstresses who were meticulously sewing the crystals and gemstones to the gauzy creation that she would have to wear to the wedding. It looked like a ridiculous cake. And extremely uncomfortable. She rolled her eyes in exasperation.

There would be hundreds of lords and ladies in all their finery. Sumptuous feasts, stifling etiquette. Issylte was terrified that her father intended to select her future husband from among the royal wedding guests.

The thought of putting her sweat-drenched palm into the polished hand of some dashing prince made her stomach turn. And he would probably whisper into her deaf ear.

She would have to pull away from him, turn her head completely around so that he could speak into her good ear, and look like a total idiot. She’d die of humiliation.

Or pretend that she’d heard whatever charming, witty thing he’d said. Search for clues in his facial expressions and mimic them, as if she thought he were oh, so clever. By the Goddess, she hated being a princess!

Brangien’s voice interrupted her disquieting reverie.

“You are positively radiant , sweetheart. These silk ribbons really enhance the color of your gown. And the golden threads in your hair. They sparkle and shimmer in the light.”

Issylte sighed audibly. She plopped down onto her vanity stool, pouting at the sight of the intricate braids on either side of her pinched face.

She glowered at her reflection in the mirror.

By the Goddess, she wanted to gallop away from all the madness of royal wedding preparations! But Brangien absolutely loved it.

Her nurse came up behind her to place a delicate golden coronet, adorned with emeralds, upon her head. Brangien kissed Issylte’s cheek and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “You’re sure to please your father and attract the eye of many a fine lord as well!”

Issylte rolled her eyes. She would soon reach the marriageable age of fourteen, and Brangien positively reveled in playing the role of royal matchmaker. But Issylte had no desire whatsoever to attract a potential suitor. Or to be a proper princess, for that matter.

Brangien stroked her golden hair—unbound in the style of young maidens —and beamed at Issylte’s reflection in the mirror.

“I know that you, my dearest, stubborn princess, would rather be cleaning your horse’s stall instead of donning these exquisite gowns.

” She gestured to the expansive royal armoires that her father always kept generously filled.

“But tonight, you will behave as the Emerald Princess of Ireland and make your father proud. And this gown is perfect for the occasion.”

Brangien kissed her cheek again. Issylte exhaled, slumped her shoulders, and reluctantly accepted defeat.

Her nurse lovingly stroked one of the slender braids. From the obvious contentment on her face, Issylte knew that Brangien approved of the dark green gathered velvet bodice of her gown, the fancy braids, the golden crown of emeralds glinting upon her head.

“Darkest green, like the forest you love so well,” her nurse whispered into her left ear as she squeezed Issylte’s shoulder. Brangien gently wiped a tear from her eye, basking Issylte in the golden glow of her generous grin. “My Emerald Princess.”

Issylte couldn’t help but return a loving smile. Although her nurse frequently drove her crazy with the endless matchmaking attempts, she absolutely adored her Gigi.

A blare of trumpets sounded, heralding the arrival of Princess Morag and her royal procession from Scotland. Brangien took Issylte’s hand, urging her towards the door.

“Come, let’s go quickly. Your father the king will wish us to be there to greet his betrothed.”

Exiting Issylte’s royal chamber, Brangien led her down the long corridor to the stone staircase, which led to the Great Hall below.

The Castle of Connaught was sumptuously decorated for the royal wedding, with evergreen and ivy garlands embedded with roses and peonies in full bloom.

Huge bouquets of spring flowers in elegant vases graced every tabletop.

The tapestries on the castle walls were clean and fresh, and the wooden furniture was fragrant with the scent of pine oil.

Gleaming marble floors and crystal chandeliers glistened in the morning sun as Issylte, Brangien, and two attendants proceeded to the Great Hall to meet King Donnchadh and his royal guests.

The entrance doors were opened wide, flanked by members of the royal guard, dressed in their finest livery. Her father’s banner—a great white hawk with outstretched wings against a dark forest green background—welcomed her, the Emerald Princess, to the Great Hall.

At Issylte’s approach, a trumpet sounded once again, announcing her arrival. The sight of hundreds of elegantly attired courtiers and royal guests assembled in the Great Hall made Issylte’s heart flutter wildly.

“Her Majesty, the Princess Issylte!”

Royal servants ushered Issylte to her father, who was resplendent in his dark green tunic, his cloak of white ermine, and his golden crown embedded with the same emeralds and diamonds that embellished her own coronet.

He sat regally upon on his throne amidst an array of courtiers whose gowns and tunics were adorned with fine silks and emblazoned with the various coats of arms of their respective territories.

All eyes were upon her as she executed a wobbly curtsey before the bemused and twinkling eyes of her royal father.

“Greetings, daughter. I am most pleased to have you here with me as we welcome my betrothed.”

King Donnchadh’s hazel eyes shone with approval as Issylte took her place at his right side.

Brangien must be bursting with pride , Issylte thought, for her father seemed pleased with her appearance—and performance.

She breathed a sigh of relief upon her small throne, wiping her drenched palms along the sides of her gown, grateful that the dark green color would hide the sweat.

The trumpets blared once again as the herald announced the arrival of the royal court of Scotland.

“His Majesty, King Griogair of Scotland, and her Royal Highness, the Princess Morag.”

Issylte’s stomach lurched, and her mouth went dry, as the royal family of Scotland regally entered the reception hall, bowing their heads in deference to King Donnchadh of Ireland.

Judging by his silver hair and beard, and the age lines which creased his craggy face, Issylte guessed that King Griogair was about twenty years older than her father. He was rather stout, yet tall, and addressed her father warmly.

“Greetings, King Donnchadh! It has been many years since I have been to Castle Connaught. You look well, Donnchadh. Your palace has been lavishly decorated for the wedding of my daughter. I am most pleased.”

King Griogair bowed his head to Issylte’s father, clasping his arm in greeting. He straightened, offering his hand to the dark-haired beauty behind him.

“Allow me to present my daughter, the Princess Morag.”

Her father’s face beamed in admiration as he beheld the exquisite beauty of his betrothed. A bitter wave of jealousy washed over Issylte at the unmasked joy upon his face, as if all that mattered was his utterly beguiling bride.

She couldn’t deny that her future stepmother was beautiful.

Princess Morag was tall and slender, with lustrous, long black hair that graced her slim waist. Her eyes were like black obsidian, a stark contrast from her porcelain complexion.

Issylte watched in morbid fascination as her future stepmother dipped into a low, regal bow before her intended husband, humbling him with her rare beauty as she humbled herself before the handsome king of Ireland.

A waft of fresh lavender perfumed the air.

“I am most honored to meet you, King Donnchadh. I hope you find me worthy of becoming your queen.”

His cheeks reddened with pleasure, her father greedily accepted the hand of his betrothed. Raising his intended to a stand, he fervently kissed Princess Morag’s hand and spoke, his voice breathless as an eager adolescent.

“Welcome to Castle Connaught, my queen.” Her father’s voice quavered with glee.

As if suddenly remembering he had a daughter, he turned to Issylte and offered his palm.

Her legs trembled; hundreds of butterflies fluttered in her chest. It was time.

He now expected her to perform like a proper princess and gracefully curtsey before the future queen.

In front of hundreds of royal spectators examining her every move.

Issylte held her breath and swallowed the lump in her throat. Sweat trickled down her palms.