Yusuf would not call himself deeply devout, but he did try to behave as he should; facing the prospect of being married to someone he did not know or like, however, he thought that he could be excused falling to the temptation of a glass of wine. First he had to sit through the feast, while his younger sisters giggled from the women’s side of the hall, and then he had to sit through the presentation of suitors. By tradition, he was not supposed to speak to any of them before the proposals began. This was not a problem for the women; it did however mean that Sébastien could only make sympathetic faces at him from ten places down the table.
The suitors were each sitting with their own parties, so Yusuf had to work to pick them out, and could only look at the men in any case. He knew Prince Stephen by sight, and Sébastien, and he suspected that the stern-faced man in the very fine outfit not far from Stephen had to be Duke Keane. Yusuf disliked him on sight. For other groups he simply could not tell them apart; the Viking Rus were all dressed the same, and all equally tall and blonde. To amuse himself he tried to spot the Comte di Genova’s youngest son, but he only managed to identify a party from Italia. He could not have said which was the son who had been pulled out of a monastery to propose to him. He caught the eye of one man with beautiful sea-green eyes, who gave him a curious smile, but there was no way it would be him; he was obviously trained as a fighter, broad in the shoulders and with a quiet but confident air.
Finally the feasting wound to its end, and Yusuf moved to the throne on the dais, from which he would accept proposals and – eventually – a suitor. Someone had thoughtfully given him the good cushions. They did not make his oncoming doom any more appealing.
The first was Prince Stephen, and Yusuf had to suffer through more excrable poetry. He was considered a fair poet himself, even when he published things anonymously – as a prince he could of course not take praise at face value otherwise – and Stephen managed to make quite good verse by other people sound atrocious. Next was Princess Quynh, but the woman-king Andromache of the steppes, who was here escorting her niece, had somehow managed to corner Yusuf in the stables that morning and inform him very firmly that not only was he not to marry her niece (‘she’d go mad in a city’), he was not to accept Princess Quynh’s suit, either.
“But what if I like her?” Yusuf had protested; Andromache was a not-infrequent guest of his parents, and he was used to her forthright ways. “I hear she is learned, and very beautiful -”
“I will slit your throat and kidnap her,” Andromache informed him cheerfully. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“Ah,” Yusuf said, some things becoming clear. “Why did you not just say she is to be your bride?”
“I still have to kidnap her,” Andromache said. “Her father has another marriage lined up, he wasn’t counting on you.”
“Do you need any help?”
Andromache grinned, and patted him on the shoulder. “No, she and I have it all nicely organized. She’s an excellent rider. But I appreciate the offer.”
“Any time,” Yusuf said, glad that Andromache was an ally, and vaguely worried he’d just agreed to get his kingdom into a war if someone annoyed her.
Princess Quynh also quoted some poetry, much more prettily but it was all not-very-veiled metaphors about horses and flowers and vipers and Yusuf would have got the message crystal-clear even without Andromache’s warning; he inclined his head respectfully and crossed her even more firmly off the mental list.
Duchess Nile gave a beautifully earnest speech, a veil covering what Yusuf thought must be a high crown of braids, but her shoulders sagged a fraction in relief when he gave her only a polite nod. He wanted no unwilling spouse. Sébastien swaggered up and praised Yusuf to the heavens in embarrassing terms that referenced any number of stupid things they had done together; Yusuf couldn’t help grinning, but he knew the game Sébastien was playing. Also, he could see his mother glaring at him.
Duke Keane glowered through his entire proposal, which wasn’t even in Yusuf’s own tongue; he had a translator. Even Prince Stephen had made an effort. It was serviceable enough, but there was something Yusuf did not like around his eyes, the way he looked not at Yusuf but at the throne, and he remembered his mother’s hesitance.
They wound there way through all of them, and there was not one that Yusuf could say he would joyfully take as a spouse, or even dutifully. He kept an idle eye out for the Comte di Genova’s forbidden son, but he did not appear. Finally, the speeches wound to an end. Maybe he had made a run for it back to his monastery, Yusuf mused. He wouldn’t blame the boy if he had. How old was he, anyway? Young, surely. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his mother whispering something to her wazir. He wondered what that was about.
“And now,” the wazir said, standing, “Prince Yusuf will -”
Somebody coughed. Yusuf, slumped in his seat and sapped of his will to live (it was the wine; there was a lesson for him) jerked upright. It was the Genovan with the sea-green eyes, who had stepped forward. With a better view, Yusuf could see his other features; a beaky nose, a prominent mole, a truly terrible haircut, and yet somehow it all added up to a face he could look at every day.
“I haven’t presented my proposal,” he said, with only a hint of apology, as if he regretted having to point out the error. His voice was quiet, but it carried, and he spoke in heavily accented but perfectly correct Arabic. “If I may?”
“Of course,” Yusuf said, letting his voice carry. “I apologise for the error. Go on.”
“Prince Yusuf,” the man said, formally. Was he the youngest son? It seemed impossible. “I have travelled here to offer you my hand in marriage. I can only offer my sword, and of course my family’s goodwill. I hope this pleases you.”
He smiled that slightly curious smile. Yusuf held out his hand.
This was the signal, conveyed to all the suitors, that they might come forward and engage Yusuf in private conversation – or as private as could be had in a crowded hall. He had extended the offer to nobody, knowing that since he had denied it to Stephen and Keane he could not do so for anybody he did not seriously intend to marry. He had not even extended it to Sébastien, his oldest friend. He was not sure why he was giving the Genovan the privilege. Perhaps it was because that his speech had only made Yusuf more curious. A sword, from a boy sent to a monastery? His family’s goodwill, when they were barely not open enemies? Nothing more, when he competed with an Emperor’s daughter and the ruling Prince of another land?
“I wasn’t expecting that,” said the Genovan, stepping forward. Yusuf could feel everybody in the room craning to listen. He kept his voice low.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” said Yusuf. “Are you really the Comte di Genova’s youngest son?”
“For my sins, yes.”
“They said you had to be pulled out of a monastery.”
“That’s true. I was meant to take my final vows next month.”
“Well, that explains the haircut,” Yusuf said without thinking. The Genovan laughed. It was a lovely laugh. “But you offered a sword.”
“I…entered the monastery late,” he said. “I went to war and…it is a long story. But it is all I have. I did not think you would be enticed by my knowledge of the Scriptures.”
“I take it you would not convert, then.”
“I don’t know,” the Genovan said. “When I came here I was not expecting what I found. I don’t know.”
Yusuf stood up from his throne. His mother threw her veil over her face, which meant that she was furious with him and did not want the whole room to see it. His father was gesturing furiously to the wazir, who clearly didn’t know what to do.
The Genovan’s eyebrows rose. Yusuf realised, in a panic, that nobody had told him his name. “What are you called?”
“Nicolò,” said Nicolò di Genova, who Yusuf was going to make his mother very unhappy over.
“Thank you all for coming here today,” Yusuf announced, as loudly and firmly as he knew. “I have accepted the suit of Nicolò di Genova.”
This was supposed to be greeted with polite applause; instead there was a dead silence. One of Yusuf’s sisters, somewhere, giggled nervously. Sébastien was mouthing “Are you sure?” at him. Andromache, who had somehow managed to appear next to Princess Quynh, was grinning at him enthusiastically. She loved chaos.
“Er,” said Nicolò, who was clearly taken aback by this. Yusuf glanced frantically at him; if he decided to back out now-
“I am honoured, Prince Yusuf,” he said, as loudly as Yusuf had spoken. “God willing, I hope I will be a good husband.”
He held out his hand. Yusuf took it. It was warm, and dry, and calloused the same way Yusuf’s hands were; by pen and sword both. Yusuf liked it immediately.
The wazir coughed, and there was a round of frantic applause. Yusuf’s mother was glaring daggers at him. He was unsure whether he or his husband-to-be were in worse danger of not surviving the night.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: Joe/Nicky, The Prince Is Getting Married, Royalty AU [2/?]
Date: 2020-09-22 04:37 am (UTC)The suitors were each sitting with their own parties, so Yusuf had to work to pick them out, and could only look at the men in any case. He knew Prince Stephen by sight, and Sébastien, and he suspected that the stern-faced man in the very fine outfit not far from Stephen had to be Duke Keane. Yusuf disliked him on sight. For other groups he simply could not tell them apart; the Viking Rus were all dressed the same, and all equally tall and blonde. To amuse himself he tried to spot the Comte di Genova’s youngest son, but he only managed to identify a party from Italia. He could not have said which was the son who had been pulled out of a monastery to propose to him. He caught the eye of one man with beautiful sea-green eyes, who gave him a curious smile, but there was no way it would be him; he was obviously trained as a fighter, broad in the shoulders and with a quiet but confident air.
Finally the feasting wound to its end, and Yusuf moved to the throne on the dais, from which he would accept proposals and – eventually – a suitor. Someone had thoughtfully given him the good cushions. They did not make his oncoming doom any more appealing.
The first was Prince Stephen, and Yusuf had to suffer through more excrable poetry. He was considered a fair poet himself, even when he published things anonymously – as a prince he could of course not take praise at face value otherwise – and Stephen managed to make quite good verse by other people sound atrocious. Next was Princess Quynh, but the woman-king Andromache of the steppes, who was here escorting her niece, had somehow managed to corner Yusuf in the stables that morning and inform him very firmly that not only was he not to marry her niece (‘she’d go mad in a city’), he was not to accept Princess Quynh’s suit, either.
“But what if I like her?” Yusuf had protested; Andromache was a not-infrequent guest of his parents, and he was used to her forthright ways. “I hear she is learned, and very beautiful -”
“I will slit your throat and kidnap her,” Andromache informed him cheerfully. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“Ah,” Yusuf said, some things becoming clear. “Why did you not just say she is to be your bride?”
“I still have to kidnap her,” Andromache said. “Her father has another marriage lined up, he wasn’t counting on you.”
“Do you need any help?”
Andromache grinned, and patted him on the shoulder. “No, she and I have it all nicely organized. She’s an excellent rider. But I appreciate the offer.”
“Any time,” Yusuf said, glad that Andromache was an ally, and vaguely worried he’d just agreed to get his kingdom into a war if someone annoyed her.
Princess Quynh also quoted some poetry, much more prettily but it was all not-very-veiled metaphors about horses and flowers and vipers and Yusuf would have got the message crystal-clear even without Andromache’s warning; he inclined his head respectfully and crossed her even more firmly off the mental list.
Duchess Nile gave a beautifully earnest speech, a veil covering what Yusuf thought must be a high crown of braids, but her shoulders sagged a fraction in relief when he gave her only a polite nod. He wanted no unwilling spouse. Sébastien swaggered up and praised Yusuf to the heavens in embarrassing terms that referenced any number of stupid things they had done together; Yusuf couldn’t help grinning, but he knew the game Sébastien was playing. Also, he could see his mother glaring at him.
Duke Keane glowered through his entire proposal, which wasn’t even in Yusuf’s own tongue; he had a translator. Even Prince Stephen had made an effort. It was serviceable enough, but there was something Yusuf did not like around his eyes, the way he looked not at Yusuf but at the throne, and he remembered his mother’s hesitance.
They wound there way through all of them, and there was not one that Yusuf could say he would joyfully take as a spouse, or even dutifully. He kept an idle eye out for the Comte di Genova’s forbidden son, but he did not appear. Finally, the speeches wound to an end. Maybe he had made a run for it back to his monastery, Yusuf mused. He wouldn’t blame the boy if he had. How old was he, anyway? Young, surely. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his mother whispering something to her wazir. He wondered what that was about.
“And now,” the wazir said, standing, “Prince Yusuf will -”
Somebody coughed. Yusuf, slumped in his seat and sapped of his will to live (it was the wine; there was a lesson for him) jerked upright. It was the Genovan with the sea-green eyes, who had stepped forward. With a better view, Yusuf could see his other features; a beaky nose, a prominent mole, a truly terrible haircut, and yet somehow it all added up to a face he could look at every day.
“I haven’t presented my proposal,” he said, with only a hint of apology, as if he regretted having to point out the error. His voice was quiet, but it carried, and he spoke in heavily accented but perfectly correct Arabic. “If I may?”
“Of course,” Yusuf said, letting his voice carry. “I apologise for the error. Go on.”
“Prince Yusuf,” the man said, formally. Was he the youngest son? It seemed impossible. “I have travelled here to offer you my hand in marriage. I can only offer my sword, and of course my family’s goodwill. I hope this pleases you.”
He smiled that slightly curious smile. Yusuf held out his hand.
This was the signal, conveyed to all the suitors, that they might come forward and engage Yusuf in private conversation – or as private as could be had in a crowded hall. He had extended the offer to nobody, knowing that since he had denied it to Stephen and Keane he could not do so for anybody he did not seriously intend to marry. He had not even extended it to Sébastien, his oldest friend. He was not sure why he was giving the Genovan the privilege. Perhaps it was because that his speech had only made Yusuf more curious. A sword, from a boy sent to a monastery? His family’s goodwill, when they were barely not open enemies? Nothing more, when he competed with an Emperor’s daughter and the ruling Prince of another land?
“I wasn’t expecting that,” said the Genovan, stepping forward. Yusuf could feel everybody in the room craning to listen. He kept his voice low.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” said Yusuf. “Are you really the Comte di Genova’s youngest son?”
“For my sins, yes.”
“They said you had to be pulled out of a monastery.”
“That’s true. I was meant to take my final vows next month.”
“Well, that explains the haircut,” Yusuf said without thinking. The Genovan laughed. It was a lovely laugh. “But you offered a sword.”
“I…entered the monastery late,” he said. “I went to war and…it is a long story. But it is all I have. I did not think you would be enticed by my knowledge of the Scriptures.”
“I take it you would not convert, then.”
“I don’t know,” the Genovan said. “When I came here I was not expecting what I found. I don’t know.”
Yusuf stood up from his throne. His mother threw her veil over her face, which meant that she was furious with him and did not want the whole room to see it. His father was gesturing furiously to the wazir, who clearly didn’t know what to do.
The Genovan’s eyebrows rose. Yusuf realised, in a panic, that nobody had told him his name. “What are you called?”
“Nicolò,” said Nicolò di Genova, who Yusuf was going to make his mother very unhappy over.
“Thank you all for coming here today,” Yusuf announced, as loudly and firmly as he knew. “I have accepted the suit of Nicolò di Genova.”
This was supposed to be greeted with polite applause; instead there was a dead silence. One of Yusuf’s sisters, somewhere, giggled nervously. Sébastien was mouthing “Are you sure?” at him. Andromache, who had somehow managed to appear next to Princess Quynh, was grinning at him enthusiastically. She loved chaos.
“Er,” said Nicolò, who was clearly taken aback by this. Yusuf glanced frantically at him; if he decided to back out now-
“I am honoured, Prince Yusuf,” he said, as loudly as Yusuf had spoken. “God willing, I hope I will be a good husband.”
He held out his hand. Yusuf took it. It was warm, and dry, and calloused the same way Yusuf’s hands were; by pen and sword both. Yusuf liked it immediately.
The wazir coughed, and there was a round of frantic applause. Yusuf’s mother was glaring daggers at him. He was unsure whether he or his husband-to-be were in worse danger of not surviving the night.