Preface 3: The Black Princess and Her White Knight

“Off with his head.”

The palace of Queenstower in High Britannia was a breathtaking structure, from which rose countless towers. In one of these towers, Princess Margaret Stillart had taken up residence. She sat on a luxurious red sofa, clad in a luxurious silk dress. As a seventeen-year-old woman soon to be eighteen, Margaret had only just reached the age of adulthood in High Britannia, but she was already a rather splendid woman; her flowing black hair that reached down to her hips was currently being tended to by half-naked maids, while another applied a transparent oil to her pale, slender feet. The maids wore only strips of cloth around their chests as they tended to Margaret’s hair and skin.

They were in a circular, white-walled room, the inner perimeter of which was lined with white pillars and small windows. The flag of High Britannia hung from the ceiling, accompanied by numerous black and red cloths, while the flame of a gas lamp painted wavering shadows on the walls.

About three paces from the sofa where Margaret was seated was a man dressed in military attire, holding a report in one hand.

“The death penalty? Are you certain of this?”

The man’s already narrow eyes narrowed even further. He was tall—perhaps even somewhat gangly—and wore the white ceremonial uniform of a knight. His appearance was rather pleasing to the eye; his hair was a pale, grayish blue, and his eyes a similar color.

He was Oswald Coulthard, close retainer to Princess Margaret. High Britannia did not have a tradition of nobles having their own armies, so legally speaking their bond was merely that of a princess and her guard. Nonetheless, with Margaret’s backing, Oswald had risen to the rank of colonel at the young age of twenty. As he had been born the third son of a merchant, this was an exceptional accomplishment.

Margaret glared at him, her amber eyes as sharp as knives. “Oh dear, does that displease you?”

“Displease me...? Perish the thought. I would never show such insolence before the wise Princess Margaret.”

“Then why haven’t you given the order yet? How very curious.”

“Would this order be in regard to the servant who was caught stealing bread?”

“That’s right. And I say off with his head.”

“Very well, then it shall be as you command. Of course, I cannot allow something so unsightly to dirty the radiant Princess Margaret’s gemstone eyes; this petty thief shall never appear before you again, and his name shall never sully your ears.”

“My oh my... When you say that, what you really mean... fufufu... is that you’ll let him get away.”

“I would not dream of doing such a thing.”

“Fufufu... A princess who has someone put to death over something as petty as stealing bread must be a demon. Such notoriety would no doubt spread. I can’t wait to hear what abuse they shall hurl at me.”

Margaret gave a cheerful giggle. She had the laugh of an innocent young woman.

“I am but a petty officer who lives to serve Her Highness,” Oswald said, his expression unchanging, “After all you have done for someone as undeserving as myself, the life of a mere bread thief and the scorn of rabble are not even worth consideration compared to the noble Princess Margaret’s honorable will.”

“I should think so.”

“The reason this petty officer did not issue the order at once is simply because I earnestly did not wish for any other man to be blessed by the sight of the princess’s beautiful legs. I understand that they are your retainers, but I did not wish to share this sight with anyone else.”

“Dear me, you really are so possessive.”

“I am sure that any other man would do the same when standing before the most valuable treasure in the world. I feel no shame in my actions.”

“Fufufu... You always have had quite the silver tongue.”

“I speak frankly and from the heart.”

The maid who had been oiling Margaret’s feet had now worked her way up to the princess’s knees. Margaret pinched the hem of her silk dress and playfully hitched it up, spreading her legs enough that the skin underneath her skirt could very nearly be seen.

“I don’t care anymore; I’ve grown sick of the matter. Forget about the servant and tell me about something more interesting.”

“Certainly.” Oswald did not falter in the slightest.

At that moment, someone called “Messenger!” from beyond the crème-colored door. Margaret glanced toward it. Oswald took this as a show of permission, and called back.

“You may enter at ease.” It appeared his polite manner of speaking did not change no matter who he was talking to.

“Pardon me!”

In came a figure wearing the uniform of High Britannia’s Royal Army, who immediately touched the fingers of her right hand to her temple in salute. There was a longsword hanging from her left hip, two daggers fastened to her thigh, and a rifle slung over her shoulder, the ammunition for which could be seen in her breast pouch. Despite being in the palace, this woman was dressed for the battlefield. She had short black hair, sharp eyes, and tightly pursed lips.

Her name was Glenda. She was a first lieutenant who acted as Oswald’s adjutant, despite being just eighteen years of age.

“It’s from our mouse!” Glenda exclaimed.

She wasn’t referring to the animal, but rather the spy that Oswald had sent out previously. This was a verbal message—one that was to be kept off the record. It would be that sort of message.

Oswald saluted to Margaret before lending an ear to Glenda. The first lieutenant had to stand on tiptoes before her lips could reach his ear.

“......”

“Understood.”

When she had given her report, Glenda saluted again and exited the room without another word.

“What a boring girl,” Margaret said with a sigh, “At the very least put on some lipstick. She was born a noble and a woman, was she not?”

Glenda was indeed the lady of a viscount house.

High Britannia had its fair share of women in the military, which wasn’t particularly surprising given that its ruling monarch was female. But even then, they were rarely, if ever, the ones standing on the front lines.

Oswald made sure to see the female officer off, making no mention of her makeup—or rather, her lack thereof—before returning to Margaret.

“The report concerns the movements of Her Majesty The Queen,” he said.

Oswald had snuck a spy into the palace to keep a close watch on the queen of High Britannia, known in full as Queen Charlotte Stillart. For generations now, the right to rule had been held exclusively by women. This was for several reasons: there was never any risk of a child being born outside of the royal bloodline, they would never have to fight—and thus would never die—in war, and they tended to have longer lifespans. It could be said that they had established a more stable reign than the surrounding countries that were ruled by men.

Not only had Queen Charlotte reached fifty years of age, but she had grown increasingly sickly in recent years; it was about time for her to name her successor. Her husband had died young during an epidemic, leaving no children behind.

Should the proper order of succession be followed, her younger brother’s daughter, Margaret Stillart, would be chosen—the very same princess lounging on the sofa having oil smeared over her legs. If she was indeed chosen, Oswald’s status would automatically rise as well.

But Oswald had his concerns. Margaret’s father was a war hawk who proudly hoisted up his theory that the nation must use the technological advantage it had gained to expand its territory. This way of thinking had spread through Parliament, the army, and the people, so much so that it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume it had become the majority opinion.

In opposition to this, there were those who asserted that the country was flourishing economically and that there was no need to break the peace, though this was very much the minority view.

But as someone who was vehemently against war, Queen Charlotte shared this notion. Opposing the majority was arduous to say the least, so there was a chance she would choose a successor who passionately shared her ideology. In fact, that possibility was precisely why Oswald had stationed a spy in the palace.

Margaret spoke out disinterestedly. She had deliberately hitched her dress up even higher, but elicited no reaction.

“Did something happen to my aunt?”

The maid who had been rubbing oil onto the princess’s legs had now worked her way to her exposed inner thigh. Margaret let out a long sigh, her lips curling into an alluring smile.

Oswald stared straight into the princess’s amber eyes, his gaze unwavering.

“The six knights of the royal guard have been convened by Her Majesty.”

“Hm.”

Margaret offered a rather laid-back reply, but on the inside she was likely much less composed. The report continued.

“The queen summoned them to her bedroom. Only the head butler was in attendance. She presumably passed on the name of her successor.”

“Oh dear, this is troublesome. Do you think I should expect to receive a summons from Aunty?”

“Had your name been put forward, I imagine we would have heard from the messenger by now.”

Queen Charlotte and Princess Margaret both lived in Queenstower, albeit in separate towers, and it took less than half an hour to run a lap around the palace.

“You’re right. How peculiar... If she did indeed name her successor, why has no messenger come for me?” Margaret emphasized, though she clearly knew the answer.

Naturally, she had not been chosen.

Margaret no doubt understood the severity of her situation, but treated it as a joke nonetheless. It was surely an issue that would seal her future in darkness, but to this girl it just appeared to be another form of entertainment.

Was she really that eccentric, or was this perhaps just the standard temperament of a royal? Whatever the case, it was certain that Margaret wasn’t entirely sane.

“This is merely the conjecture of a petty officer,” Oswald continued, “but... I believe the royal guard has set off for the eastern capital of Applewood.”

“I should think so. That is where Liz is, after all.”

The girl that Margaret called “Liz” was her cousin, Princess Elizabeth Victoria. She was the daughter of the queen’s younger sister and, at sixteen years of age, was something of a little sister to Margaret.

Elizabeth was too young to take the throne, and her pedigree was iffy at best, but she was very similar to Charlotte—a brave, stout-hearted pacifist with a strong sense of justice.

“Princess Elizabeth is scheduled to continue her studies until July. I presume Her Majesty intended to wait until she graduated. However, given her poor health and the state of the country, it is appropriate to think she has hastened her decision.”

“Dear me... Is Aunty really doing that poorly? How worrisome.”

“How considerate. Had Her Majesty heard your words of concern, I am sure she would be overjoyed.”

“Fufufu... Well then... Shall I begin thinking of how to congratulate Liz when she is crowned queen?”

“There is no need.”

“Oh, a pity. I was just thinking that pink roses would complement her beautifully.”

“If you say so, that is most definitely right. But I believe pink is far too vibrant of a color for a funeral.”

“You’re right. I’ll have to choose something more appropriate.”

“As a petty officer, it pains my heart enough to split my chest to make such a request, but... Princess Margaret... could you afford me some time?”

“Fufufu... As long as you don’t bore me, Oswald.”

“Of course.”

Oswald had considered the possibility that Queen Charlotte would not name Princess Margaret as her successor, and as this was a situation he had already anticipated, he had already given the order.

By now, Glenda should have departed from the palace, and a unit in Margaret’s faction was already stationed in a fort near Applewood. The six knights of the royal guard would never make it back to the palace in one piece. Of course, neither would Princess Elizabeth.

Oswald changed the topic, instead speaking about a play that was popular in town. As he rambled on and on, he worked through a few plans in his head.

He would get Margaret enthroned—that much was a given. In fact, it was simply the first step of a much wider plan. He had so much more to do. The map in his head spread out to Belgaria, and the countries beyond.