Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [41]
At last, the red sails of his flagship were sighted, and the City made ready to receive him. Since their marriage, it has always been a joyous occasion. While that had not changed, there was a measure of reserve. Not among the D'Angeline commonfolk, who adored Drustan mab Necthana. They never forgot that he and his Cruithne, with the aid of the Dalriada, saved our nation in its direst hour, falling upon the forces of Waldemar Selig.
Among the peers of the realm it was different. They muttered about the line of succession in Alba, and the imbalance of power that might ensue. And they muttered about how to redress the inequity, and the line of succession here in Terre d'Ange. Although my thoughts were fixed on Montrève, I kept my ears open as we attended the procession, and I heard the muttering. Not a lot, but here and there it was evident.
Cruithne half-breeds.
That was the term that made me break into a cold sweat, for it was the one they used for Sidonie and Alais; especially Sidonie, for she was the Dauphine. I shouted and clapped and threw petals with the others as Drustan entered the gates, and wondered if she knew. I guessed that she did, and felt sorry for her. In some ways, perhaps, her lot was no easier than mine.
If Sidonie felt the disapproval, she never showed it. It was a piece of irony. When impetuous Alais flung herself on her father and Drustan caught her up with a smile, setting her on the pommel of his saddle, everyone cheered. How not? Though her features were pure Cruithne, she was a lovable child—and she was not the Queen's Heir. Sidonie, though… she was so much the mirror of her mother, from her upright carriage to her clean-cut profile, her chin raised in cool defiancé. And yet it earned her few cheers. The commonfolk liked her well enough, after a fashion. They remembered Ysandre's ride toward the walls of the City of Elua, when Percy de Somerville had sought to make it his own. They remembered how she faced down an entire army through sheer courage.
So did the peers, who muttered. Because Ysandre was pure-blooded D'Angeline, and Sidonie was not, and there were powerful people in several of the Great Houses of Terre d'Ange who mistrusted her for it, who despised the fact that the sacred bloodlines of Elua and his Companions had been rendered impure. Because some of them supported Percy de Somerville's goals, although they would never say it aloud in earshot of anyone loyal to the Queen.
I saw them glance my way, sometimes.
Not often, and not for long. The shadow of my mother's infamy hung over me. But I saw the speculation in their eyes, and I knew they were asking themselves, which is less tolerable? Melisande's son, or a Pictish half-breed?
Thus far, the answer yet favored Sidonie. After all, my mother's machinations nearly gave Terre d'Ange into the hands of Waldemar Selig. An alliance through marriage with Alba, even one that favored the Cruithne over time, was preferrable to conquest by Skaldia. Still, I hated knowing anyone thought it.
It would help if Ysandre would promise Sidonie's hand in marriage to some pure-blooded young D'Angeline nobleman who could trace his lineage back in an unbroken line to Elua or one of his Companions. She wouldn't, though. It was politics, in part. It might silence the muttering, but those who disapproved were too few to pose any meaningful threat. There were too many favorable alliances to be made while the possibility yet dangled, and Sidonie was only thirteen. And too, it was idealism; Blessed Elua's precept, Love as thou wilt. Ysandre did not, I think, cling fast to the conviction that her daughters would make love-matches to equal her own. But she had every intention of allowing them the opportunity to do so, insofar as the pragmatic constraints of politics permitted.
I wished them