A Rebel Princess

CHAPTER ONE 1869-2

Tora found it much more attractive than the valuable green malachite that was to be found in other parts of the Palace.

The chairs, covered in red plush, which were used when the Court listened to a concert or when on rare occasions they were entertained by opera singers, were now pushed to one side.

Tora walked over the polished parquet to the platform where the Professor was sitting playing a beautiful folk song.

It was one sung by the Radoslavs when they were working in the fertile valleys or cutting down fir trees on the lower slopes of the mountains.

Intent on what he was playing, the Professor did not look up until Tora was standing beside him.

Then he rose to his feet, his face illuminated by a smile of delight.

She was his favourite pupil and, as he had taught her now for nearly ten years, Tora thought of him as one of her family and she knew that he loved her more than his own children or any of his relatives.

“Forgive me for being late,” she said, “but Papa sent for me.”

The Professor bowed.

“I was worried in case I should not see Your Highness,” he replied, “because I have news to tell you that I know will please you.”

“News?” Tora questioned, biting back her news that she had intended to give him as soon as they met.

Her father had said that King Radul’s intentions were to be kept secret, but she had no secrets from the Professor.

He was, in fact, not only her teacher of music but also her Father Confessor, her advisor and somebody she thought of as her only friend.

It was impossible to be really friendly with anybody in the Court because she suspected that both her mother and her father often questioned them about what she was doing and what she was thinking.

Because she was far more adventurous than her brother, who was very like the Grand Duke and as he grew older was beginning to think along exactly the same lines, they were always a little apprehensive about Tora.

She had always been unpredictable even as a child.

While she lived as they thought in her dream world, she would also behave very unconventionally when it suited her and in the Court anything unusual was automatically considered a mistake.

Because she loved the Professor, Tora now deliberately forced herself to hear his news before she told him her own.

As she listened, she sat on a chair beside the piano and this meant that he too could sit down again on the music stool.

He was a fine-looking man with clear-cut features and a wealth of white hair brushed back from a square forehead.

The lines of age on his face, Tora often thought, made him look more compassionate and more sympathetic than detracted from his appearance.

It was the face of an idealist and a man who like herself lived more in a land of fantasy than in reality.

His long, thin, sensitive fingers could create the most exquisite sounds, which pulled at the heart and expressed what was in his mind and soul in a way that she had found in no other person she had ever met.

Now there was a light in his eyes as he began,

“Sometimes, Your Highness, as you well know, I feel that since I am old I am forgotten. A new generation has grown up since the days I was famous and I seldom hear from any of the Courts of Europe where at one time I was so much in demand.”

“I am sure they have never really forgotten you, Professor,” Tora said softly.

“That is what I like to think,” he replied.

“At the same time I admit that they seldom get in touch with me.”

There was an expression of sadness in his eyes before he went on quickly,

“But now, when I least expected it, I have had a request to play at a Court where I have not been for at least twenty years!”

“And where is that?” Tora enquired.

“Salona!” he replied. “The King has asked that I should take my quartet – I must say I am surprised he has even heard of it! – to the Palace in three days’ time to play, I understand, to a distinguished guest he is entertaining and who has asked specially for me.”

When he named the place he was going to Tora had given a little gasp, but the Professor had not noticed it and he continued,

“It is gratifying, very gratifying. There is only one difficulty – ”

He would have said more if Tora had not interrupted by saying,

“It is very strange, but it was of Salona that I wished to speak to you.”

The Professor looked at her enquiringly as she said,

“The reason I was late for my lesson was that Papa had sent for me to tell me that King Radul with be arriving here in two weeks’ time to ask for my hand in marriage!”

The Professor stared at her as if he could not have heard aright.

Then he said in what appeared to be a strange voice,

“The King has asked for you to be his wife?”

“Yes.”

“But it cannot be true! His Majesty is an old man!”

“I know that,” Tora said. “I wanted to tell Papa I would not marry him, but he had no wish to listen to me because an alliance between Radoslav and Salona would be so very much in our favour.”

She spoke like a child repeating a lesson.

Then suddenly her voice changed and she cried out,

“Oh, Professor, what can I do? I cannot marry an old man! How could I bear to give up all the dreams I have had of finding somebody I could love, somebody who would understand what I express in music, as you understand what I am trying to say?”

The Professor put his hand up to his forehead.

“I cannot credit, Your Highness, that what you are telling me is the truth!”

“It is true! It is true!” Tora replied. “It is everything Papa has always wanted for Radoslav and, whatever I may say, he will not allow me to – refuse the King who only wants a – young wife in order to give him – another son.”

She spoke bitterly.

Then, as if it was not bitterness she felt but misery, her eyes filled with tears and clasping her hands together she cried out,

“Save me, Professor, save me from something that I know is – wrong and would destroy – everything in which I – believe!”

The note in her voice was to the Professor that of a child who was frightened and who turns to somebody grown-up for comfort and security.

He put out his hand to cover hers and said in a voice that was as emotional and deeply moved as hers had been,

“How can I help you? What can I do? You know I would give my right arm, my life, rather than that you should suffer.”

“It is not only that he is so – very old,” Tora murmured, “but I feel sure he will be – like Papa – and living in his Palace will be like being incarcerated in a – tomb and there would be no – escape.”

She knew that the Professor would understand, because so often, when for some reason she had been unhappy or distressed, he would said to her,

“Forget what you are feeling. Escape on a magic carpet that will carry you into a world that is so exquisitely beautiful that all you will think of are the flowers at your feet, the stars overhead and the snowy peaks of the mountains which can be reached with the mind.”

Then they had played music together until Tora knew that she was transplanted into another world where nothing could hurt her and there was nothing ugly or cruel.

How could she feel like that when she would belong to the man who would be her husband, who would expect her to be continually with him and when her duties as Queen would inevitably occupy her whole time.

“What can I – do?” she asked in a whisper. “How can I – refuse him?”

“I don’t know,” the Professor said heavily.

He took his hand from hers and ran his fingers over the keyboard almost as if he asked the music for an answer to her problem.

Then, as if she thought she was being selfish in thinking only of herself, Tora said,

“But you are going to Salona and you will be able to tell me what it is like and if the King is as – frightening as I – believe him to be.”

It was difficult to say the last words, but the Professor heard them.

He played a loud note almost deafeningly and then exclaimed angrily,

“It is too much to bear! I will not go to Salona! I will send my apologies and stay at home!”

“No, no, Professor, you cannot do that, not on my account. It is too important for you. Besides, if I have to go, if I have to obey Papa, perhaps sometimes I should be able to see you and hear you play.”

“Sometimes!” the Professor repeated.

She knew he was thinking that such occasions would be rare and it was most improbable once she was Queen that they would get the chance to speak as informally to each other as they did now.

As if he was translating his thoughts into words, he said,

“Although it would be a great honour for you to marry the King of Salona and you would be acclaimed by everybody in Radoslav, I know that you, my precious Princess, are far too vulnerable and sensitive to be married to a man who belongs to a different generation from yourself.”

There was a little silence.

Then Tora asked,

“What do you remember about the King when you last saw him?”

“As I said, it was a long time ago,” the Professor replied, “but, of course, I have heard of him since. He is often talked about.”

“In what way?”

The Professor was silent, as if he was choosing his words before he said,

“Perhaps it is better for you to know the truth. He quarrelled with his son because Prince Vulkan found the constrictions of life at his father’s Court intolerable.”

“Papa has a different description of him,” Tora murmured.

“I think the Prince was progressive-minded as well as adventurous,” the Professor said. “Anyway, he left his own country some years ago and I understand that he has never returned.”

Tora knew how he felt.

“That is – why,” she said in a voice that trembled, “the King wants – another son.”

The Professor’s face darkened as he said,

“It is intolerable, that you of all people, should be married not for your beauty, your intelligence or your personality which shines like a light, but just because you are young and able to produce children.”

He spoke angrily and Tora covered her face with her hands with what was a superhuman effort forced back her tears.

She had learned self-control ever since she was a small child and her intelligence told her there was no point in crying, even though it was something she longed to do.

Instead she had to think clearly to find some way out of the situation she now found herself in.

“Perhaps,” she said after a moment, taking away her hands from her eyes, “when the King arrives I could manage to look so ugly and be so unpleasant that he would refuse to marry me.”

The moment she spoke she knew that she was just playing games with her imagination and making up a story that could have no substance in reality.

Besides, she had the uncomfortable feeling that it would not matter what she looked like.

All the King was concerned with was a young wife, who must, of course, be suitable by birth and breeding to bear him a son.

The Professor must have known what she was thinking and, as if the tension was too intolerable to be endured, he said in a different tone of voice,

“There is nothing we can do, my Princess, but I will go to Salona and bring back, I hope, some information that will cheer you and make things seem less unpleasant and frightening than they are now.”

He struck a note on the piano before he added,

“Nothing in life is ever without its difficulties. Nothing for any of us ever runs smoothly.”