“You have said yourself, sire, that we all have a certain discontent.”
“The Princess Hedwig,” Karl said suddenly. “She has been told, of course?”
“Not officially. She knows, however.”
“How does she regard it?”
The Chancellor hesitated. “Like most young women, she would prefer making her own choice. But that,” he added hastily, “is but a whim. She is a lovable and amiable girl. When the time comes she will be willing enough.”
Karl stared out through one of the heavily curtained windows. He was not so sure. And the time had gone by when he would have enjoyed the taming of a girl. Now he wanted peace—was he not paying a price for it?—and children to inherit his well-managed kingdom. And perhaps—who knows?—a little love. His passionate young days were behind him, but he craved something that his unruly life had not brought him. Before him rose a vision of Hedwig her frank eyes, her color that rose and fell, her soft, round body.
“You have no reason to believe that she has looked elsewhere?”
“None, sire,” said the Chancellor stoutly.
By late afternoon all was arranged, papers signed and witnessed, and the two signatures affixed, the one small and cramped—a soldier’s hand; the other bold and flowing—the scrawl of a king. And Hedwig, save for the ceremony, was the bride of Karl of Karnia.
It was then that the Chancellor rose and stretched his legs. “And now, sire,” he said, “since we are friends and no longer enemies, you will, I know, release that mad boy of mine.”