Duty

Written by Indigo Evans
Edited for FalWriting by Eoin Murray

Image Credit via Shutterstock

“You are such a disappointment!”

My mother’s harsh words rang in my ears as I fled the palace and sought refuge in the stables.

I snatched several quick breaths. Comforting scents filled my nostrils; horses and sweat blended with sweet hay. I grabbed a brush and approached my big, beautiful mare, Tiffany.

According to my parents, I had one job. Marry well, ensuring the financial success of our kingdom. What they really meant was I needed to balance their coffers and hide their frivolous overspending.

I had no interest in marriage, money, or monarchy. I wanted to live by my own rules. Royal life was stifling, with no escape from everyone’s expectations.

I envied the servants. Yes, their days were full of drudgery, but their nights were free. They could do as they pleased and love whoever they liked. As long as they showed up for work, nobody cared.

My valet George saw how constricted I felt. He helped me slip out at night. In disguise, we would frequent the most run-down tavern in the humblest part of town. George enjoyed the ale, but I was drawn to the customers.

An eclectic mix of travelling odd-job men, servants, doxies, gigolos, and farmhands, all mingling together. They were so alive and vibrant; they drank, talked, sang, and danced. I longed to join them.

But no, I had a duty. I must wed a wealthy woman; a suitable future queen.

As I groomed Tiffany, the methodical motion of the brush combined with the sound of her contented nickering soothed me.

Tonight, my freedom would end.

Eligible women from near and far were invited to celebrate my twenty-first birthday at a grand ball. Their majesties had been crystal clear: select a bride, or they would choose for me.

There were many charming, affluent ladies at the ball, but only she captured my attention. I didn’t know what the hell she was doing there. How she’d got hold of such a fabulous gown was a mystery. She looked like a picture-perfect princess as I swept her onto the dance floor.

No one had recognised her. But then none of the nobles paid any notice to the servants. Neither their own, nor those from other households, no matter how pretty they were beneath the grime.

Not that she was grimy tonight, she was radiant. Her pale skin shimmered under the ballroom lights, her eyes sparkling even more than the ridiculous glass shoes she’d chosen to wear.

“You’re stunning,” I murmured.

“Thanks, I know. You look good too; the fake beard didn’t suit you.”

I glanced over to where the King and Queen sat, their greedy gazes fixed on the displays of wealth assembled before them. Finally, I understood what I should do.

I had a phenomenal opportunity to thwart their plans. Proposing to a servant pretending to be a noblewoman would mean freedom for us and no coin for them.

Perfect!