❧ @hellcnas
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: palace of facets, moscow
𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞: 23 july 1319, evening
Throughout the bride’s stiff and ostentatious presentation, Charles had felt nothing more than the blunt edges of boredom gnawing upon him. He took note, not of the tender bride herself, but of the magnificent parade in her wake. This was the real presentment. No amount of beauty could conceal the glaring repulsion of a paltry offering, but even the most hideous woman shone bright in the light of the luxurious, the scintillating, the pure heft of her family’s wealth. (This, Charles would tell himself, while shuddering nonetheless at such a predicament.) Fabrics of fine quality and heaping coins beckoned avarice. The distinct Byzantine nature of it all, however, made anticipation a companion to his initial indifference. Such was his personal interest in the reception underway—it was reconnaissance, but it was also the judging of competition. France might outshine this gilded rigidity. Witnessing firsthand the reception offered to the Byzantines and all the world, such a possibility became to him nothing less than a mandate.
The ceremony reached its end, and now it was time to move. Charles leapt from his seat with little thought to what occupation he might take; his restlessness, half-excitement and half the desire to be seen, required more motion than thought. With haste, dancing and mingling had commenced enlivening the banquet hall. It seemed others were of the same mind as himself. He paused to appreciate the ambiance—the space beneath the concave web of the ceiling and between the bodies moving, an atmosphere thrumming with aggrandizement. The bowed heads of congregated conversations juxtaposed against the rhythmic surging and receding of the dancers now amassed. Clanging, clinking, the faint slosh of what passed for wine… Spaces ike this ripened with chaos. It would be subtle until it spilled over in heated words, in visceral passion, or (among less civil company) from split knuckles.
Charles bowed his head. He thought of God. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself.
This was the way he approached her. Of course, there was a brief detour. He first spent an undue amount of time standing toe-to-toe with a stout, matronly Byzantine gentlewoman. A man, whom Charles had mistakenly believed to be this maid’s minder, once more unleashed upon him the dull teeth of boredom. He watched his jowls as he spoke. Spittle dewed his beard. The woman’s face, so plain and open, would be no better distraction. It was only when she jutted her bony chin in the direction of another that his mistake was revealed. She—her, lithe and elegant even from afar—had been all the while alongside the evening’s honored bride. As a trio, they watched as the princess pressed assurance in the form of a lingering hand against the would-be tsarina’s arm. This was private, intimate even. This was a moment that meant nothing to Charles, but now it was over. Having noticed as well, the matron suggested with much pluck and little irony that a king’s time was better spent with others.
Charles agreed. With a gliding step and no words—indeed, had he uttered anything at all to the pair?—he left. He thought himself less a god to them and more an angel; would they ask themselves later, had a foreign king tested them and vanished? Now gone from his sight, it was they who ceased to exist. Her path into the rest of the party stood remarkably clear for such a populated room. Behind, the dais loomed. A wall of partygoers to one side and a food-laden table on the other formed a narrow aisle; he placed himself squarely in her way. It would compel her to halt before him, face tilted and surprise in her eyes. He surmised she was too dignified for the other option. What princess would throw herself shoulder-first into the throng of guests? A few seconds intervened before she noticed. These moments—just as her gaze lifted to glint like black glass in the low light—were for appraising. He thought simply, ‘The Lord delivers,’ as satisfaction colored his expression.
“Byzantium displays all of its jewels on this evening,” Charles remarked once he had her attention. “Princess Helena—” He paused to acknowledge the feel of her name. Looking in the direction of her sister, he concluded, “She must adore you.”