Chapter Two: “Spoiled, Rotten, Never Steal.”

When my father taught me French, he taught me three phrases, Parlez-vous français, pourriez-vous m'aider à trouver la place de la ville, and pour l'amour de la guerre et l'amour de l'amour, c'est moi.

Translation: Do you speak French? Could you help me find the town square? And my father’s saying, for the love of war and the love of love it’s self.

He meant that men understood two things: war and love. They loved them both and could not be starved of ether one.

They gave me a big room with a wardrobe filled to the brim with extravagant dresses, as if all of these material things will evaporate my grief. I lost my family, my freedom, and my life, now I was at the mercy of Clemens and the crown, on my sixteenth birthday I was to marry him and have his child.

Ten-year-olds aren’t supposed to worry about their future, why am I an exception?

I wrote that in my diary the first night in the kingdom, “Pour l'amour de la guerre et l'amour de l'amour, c'est moi.” I said out loud when I was done writing.

It was only that one line, why would I want to remember the horrific events that I had just swallowed?

I wrote down what the room looked like, the room’s area was as big as the cottage and half of the town’s square put together. The walls were red, with black wood furnishings and gold trimmings. There was a bed that could fit all of my family members plus Eleutherius and Gabriel, it also was covered in the finest gold silk sheets and the canopy above was the thinnest sheet of fabric.

In the courier I sat writing all of my observations down in my journal. There was a desk matching the color of the wood furnishings stocked with leather bound books, parchment, ink pens and wells of ink, a copy of the Bible, and many French dictionaries and text books.

I would be lying if I said this room wasn’t beautiful. And I also would be fooling myself if I said I didn’t love Prince Clemens.

He was a tall young man of sixteen, muscular, dapper, handsome. Everything a princess, like me, looks for.

He was involved in the senseless murder of my family, so I didn’t understand my feelings for him. But something did tell me that he was kind, courageous, and that he would do anything for his kingdom.

His blonde hair, his blue eyes, his tanned skin, his full lips and crooked smile. He looked more like his mother then his father.

“Tanya,” Clemens soft and enchanting voice made me turned my head to the doorway.

He was dressed in a dark-green coat that hugged his shoulders nicely, a dream colored blouse peaked out from underneath, and his brown pants fit him snuggly. He looked as if he had been planing to ride his one of his horses.

Why did love make me beg for him? I did not love him—he killed my family and acted as if Eleutherius and Gabriel weren’t my real friends. But then again, I did not understand love. Only a saying I could translate into English and back to French in a matter of seconds.

“Yes, my lord?” I was polite as ever. I thought if I were on my best behavior things would change and I would be able to go back to Eleutherius and Gabriel.

“My lord?” he chuckled, “My princess, call me Clemens.”

I gave him a small smile, “Yes, Clemens?”

“Dinner is on the table, would you like any help changing?” he stepped in without an answer from me.

“Clemens!” I shrieked as he almost touched me. “Aren’t the servants supposed to do that.”

“You and I would not like the filthy Famuli touching your clothes and your body.”

Filthy came out as a hiss, as if the word it self was dripping with filthy water and venom when body came out sensual. I knew of his real intentions.

His hands were resting on my hips and his lips were at my ear, “Pour l'amour de la guerre et l'amour de l'amour, c'est moi..” The way he said my father’s phrase sent shivers up my neck.

“For the love of war—“

“And the love of love it’s self.” He chuckled lightly, “I heard you say that.” He was undoing the buttons at the back of my dress.

“You heard that?” I was letting him undress me.

Half of me was aware of what he was doing—not enjoying it—and half of me loved his touch.

“Pris au piège entre l'amour et des valeurs morales, cette guerre sera mon dernier.” I sighed into his neck.

My dirty dress slipped from my body and his hands. “You are testing my French are you not?”

All I did was smile and lifted my arms, awaiting my clean dress.

“Let’s see,” he thought out loud. He took awhile to put the dress on me he was fascinated by my pale skin and lack of underwear. “Love and war, moral,” his fingers were cold and sent shivers up my spine.

“Do you give up?” I sighed.

“No, I’ve got it,” I nodded and he said proudly, “Trapped between love and moral values, this war will be my last.” I felt his frown against my head.

He spun me around so I could see his reaction to what he just discovered, guilt.

“Tanya, you’re home now, this is your home.”

Why must people tell me what is mine and try to erase the fact that I had a home before this? “This is not my home,” I spat as I broke free of his grasp and his spell. For the moment I was not loving him. “My home went up in flames, it was destroyed for your entertainment!”

“Ça suffit!”

“No! That’s not enough for you! You had to burn the bodies of my family too! That way you would have to deal with burying such a large family.”

“It wasn’t my choice.”

“Not yours but your father’s!”

“Why would you blame me for something my father did?”

I stopped. I know what it’s like to be blamed for something someone else did. My little sister, maybe it was Margaret, once stole a necklace when we were visiting another village. I told her to put it back before they knew it was missing but when I returned it, the shopkeeper was hysterical.

“She returned the necklace to you,” my mother argued with him. “It wasn’t even her that took it.”

“It was me!” bawled Margaret. “Je l'avoue! Il est moi!” she was still learning French, so it was very slow and slurred.

“You,” the shopkeeper pointed to me, a small eight-year-old at the time, and snapped, “Learn how to look after your little sisters and—” he snatched the pearl necklace from my hand, “I’ll take this.” He glared at my mother and started yelling at her in French.

I heard, “Spoiled, rotten, never steal, get out, don’t come back, and learn to be a mother.” My French at the time wasn’t as good as it is now, but even then I never remembered what else he had thrown at my poor mother.

“I know how you feel, my mother died when I was just a boy, after my brother was born, my father never remarried.”

I didn’t look at him, just his black leather shoes and the exotic carpet underneath them.

“My father thought it was Dante who killed her.”

“That’s not true of course.” I remarked. I walked past him toward the wardrobe.

“I know,” he grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him. “Cooperate, Tanya, and things will go much smoother.” He played with my hair for a bit then let me go, “Let’s get you dressed.”