Once upon a time in a magical land, there lived a wicked witch named Beatrice. Despite her wicked nature, there was something unusually enchanting about her. Beatrice was known as the honeyed witch because of the way she charmed people with her words. She had a way of using her persuasive language to manipulate others to do her bidding. Her sweet talk would draw people in, making them believe in her every word and obey her every command. It was as if she had cast a spell on them with her honeyed words, leaving them entranced and under her control.
Beatrice caught her breath, excited to be talked of at council, even if she was reduced only to “the bride.”
Beatrice ran her fingers lovingly over bolts of red and purple cloth, touched the smooth carved features of black Bad-Luck dolls with glass beads for eyes. One of Riccardo s valets would help her slip into the staircase, holding her veil and shoes for her as she descended to where the little door was left just a crack open for her.
It was as if she had cast a spell on them with her honeyed words, leaving them entranced and under her control. Unlike typical witches who relied on dark magic and potions, Beatrice used her silver tongue to achieve her desires. No one could resist her mesmerizing voice and the way she spun her tales.
Chapter 12 - Beatrice
One of the newer gifts sent by the Duke of Sanchia to the King of Ammar was a tapestry depicting the first Blood King. Legend had it that this King once defeated a dragon and was rewarded with the hand of one of God’s angels in marriage. It was woven with exact measurements of Ammar’s throne room such that, when hung behind the dais, it would make whoever sat the throne appear to be the first Blood King bursting forth.
Because the effect would be spoiled if hung even a little off-center, Riccardo had an excuse to examine the walls of the throne very carefully and learn the little networks of hidden staircases that valets used to move discreetly between rooms. In Sanchia, these were cold marble staircases that reverberated with echoes, making them a poor venue for eavesdropping. In Ammar, they were made of wood.
As long as Beatrice could balance her weight on the interlocking tiles and keep very still, she could make out the voices in the throne room if she stood by the servant’s door that opened just behind the new tapestry.
Beatrice would arrange to go to the library above the palace’s great hall. One of Riccardo’s valets would help her slip into the staircase, holding her veil and shoes for her as she descended to where the little door was left just a crack open for her. She listened intently, matching echoing voices to names as the minutes dragged by and the men argued.
Riccardo had been right about Gruffydd. In the first meeting she attended in secret, she heard the man disparaging the character of the lord’s daughter who got married without consulting Gruffydd. There was more to it, little subtleties Riccardo missed. Beatrice was able to piece together that the marriage could move Gruffydd and his son one step back from the line of succession.
“Your Majesty knows this,” Gruffydd pressed. “A son from this union throws everything into disarray. Should the Prince of Ammar die childless, the sons from this marriage would be his successors.”
Beatrice felt her nostrils flare: was the man implying she could not give the prince sons? That was the point of the menses belt. To prove that she had the hips for it!
“Who says he will die childless?” Teqwyn asked. “The prince may yet have many sons once he returns from Nynomath.”
“He should see about having them before,” Mayelor said. “Much better to leave a wife with child and head to war than to leave in doubt.”
“Quite. It may be wisest to keep the prince at home until the production of an heir is underway,” Gruffydd agreed. “Let Teqwyn’s boys take the Golden Fleet around the horn. The prince can catch up to me once his marital duties are complete.”
“Send your own son,” the King of Ammar said. “He has neither land, nor a bride to plow. Let him claim glory on the field of battle in your name. At my son’s side.”
“My son would be better served as an ambassador, Your Highness,” Gruffydd suggested. “Let us send him to Bocce to guard our interests there. It puts him in the perfect place to manage things from the east while Your Majesty’s forces invade from the west.”
“I doubt your son could manage anything more complex than a dinner party, if the boy’s marks at Amwarren are anything to go on,” King Anathas said. “Well, now. School is not for everyone…”
They bickered more, and Beatrice mulled over what she’d learned. Some of it, she already knew from what her mother had told her. Duchess Sofia’s spies relayed gossip about the prince back to Sanchia, which painted a flattering picture of her future son-in-law. Prince Anryniel was reputed to be studious and good with a sword. Beatrice supposed Gruffydd’s son must have been similar—perhaps close enough to be seen as a rival to Prince Anryniel.
Beatrice turned to gossip to fill in the missing details. Eavesdropping on women was less physically demanding than eavesdropping on the men—although more expensive. Beatrice went to the market, with Riccardo trailing behind her to carry her purse. The men escorting their women often stood a dozen paces back while their ladies browsed the stalls. The scant distance was like its own veil, drawing the women away from the world of men where they were free to whisper and giggle.
The allure of the market was almost enough to distract Beatrice from her task, there among the merchants' stalls glittering with goods and trinkets from faraway places she’d never seen. Ammar had the very best wool in the world, and some of the finest wood. Beatrice ran her fingers lovingly over bolts of red and purple cloth, touched the smooth carved features of black Bad-Luck dolls with glass beads for eyes.
Drifting from stall to stall, she let herself be seen by the other ladies. Riccardo was seen too, drawing his fair share of appreciative glances. The sight of Beatrice of Sanchia was enough to stir other ladies to talking, their whispers and titters fluttering out from beneath their veils:
“Ooooh, is the brother-in-law looking for a wife, too?”
“Gruffydd’s boy will have a suit matching the Prince’s at the wedding…”
“It’s like the fairytale, where the brothers switch places and trick the wife into bigamy…”
“They’ll be easy to tell apart! I hear little Anryniel barely comes up to Gruffydd’s chin…”
So, Beatrice thought, the Prince of Ammar was scrawny. Perhaps also sickly. No one seemed at all worried or surprised about his mysterious illness. This led Beatrice to believe that it was a common occurrence.
Beatrice asked Riccardo to ask in council about the prince’s health. He grumbled, but obliged in the next council meeting. Beatrice listened as Riccardo asked, as tactfully as he could, if there were some concerns that the bridegroom had cold feet.
“What are you implying?” the King demanded.
Even from behind the tapestry, behind the door, Beatrice could feel the mood of the room shift. Riccardo stammered, trying to backpedal. Thankfully, another lord—Eyiffoen—suggested that this was just another mistranslation on Riccardo’s part.
“He has a cold, he does not have cold feet,” Eyiffoen explained. “A cold is like a chill he caught while out sledding. It’s nothing to do with his feet, although hot bricks placed there might draw the chill out of his head.”
“No, no, not bricks,” said Tommasi. “You cure a cold with black pine tea and a little honey for the throat. And the boy should perhaps visit a shrine and make an offering to God to cure him.”
“Anryniel will come straight home,” said the King. “Damn the boy’s nosebleeds. He can hold it shut for a carriage ride. The Duke will not send the Golden Fleet until the bride is brought to bed.”
Beatrice caught her breath, excited to be talked of at council, even if she was reduced only to “the bride.”
The thought of her wedding night was even more exhilarating. All her life, Beatrice had heard the songs—romantic ballads and laments of courtly love. She even found a sacred text stolen from Hellachrae that contained drawings of their priestesses’ love making rituals. When her mother found the book hidden in Beatrice’s room, she’d given her daughter a stern lecture that marriage would not be like that, not exactly. Even so, Beatrice knew it would involve kissing. Beatrice wanted very much to be kissed—and perhaps to find another copy of that book, someday.
These thoughts distracted Beatrice from eavesdropping. She snapped back to awareness when the voices behind the door rose to shouts. Beatrice missed whatever was said to cause a storm, but she heard the groan of chairs and the scrape of steel as swords were drawn.
“How dare you! My daughter’s honor is well above your wife’s!” Tommasi shouted. “She is a learned woman—not a witch.”
“By God, sir, I take exception to your tone…!” Teqwyn answered.
Beatrice strained to see the fight from the crack between the door, but she could only make out little blurs where the swords swung through the air. It went on for a moment before the King started to yell for the lords to stop.
“Put them up, my lords. Now! No more about hot water and witchcraft,” King Anathas shouted. “That heresy has no place at court. My son knows better than to meddle in it. The boy will come straight home, and be wed before the end of the month. We can be away to the horn the very next day if Sanchia will send the fleet early. The timing is perfect.”
“Yes, perfect, Your Majesty! A spring honeymoon would suit the prince well,” Eyiffoen said, trying to draw attention to himself and the fact that he had not been one of the unruly lords drawing swords in the King’s presence. “It may even be that you are a grandfather by this time next year, Your Majesty!”
“Care to wager on it?” said Gruffydd. There was no mistaking his sarcasm. “I’ll loan you the money to cover the bet. Eight percent interest.”
Beatrice lingered while the lords left the room through the main doors. She turned over all the bits of gossip and drama in her mind. She still doubted that she wanted to be queen in a country that swaddled women in veils and wouldn’t let them carry their own money.
Then her mind returned to the wedding night. What if Prince Anryniel were sickly? What if he was so scrawny, he was shorter even than her? Beatrice only brought heeled shoes with her from Sanchia. It would be a disaster of fashion and Nature to tower over her groom at the altar.
When the sound of squeaking parquet faded completely from the great hall, Beatrice prepared herself to return up the stairs. She started to ascend and then caught sight of the blue hem of a gown at the top of the steps. Beatrice looked up, and froze.
The Queen of Ammar stood there on the staircase, staring down at her.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then Beatrice felt the strength go out of her legs. She sank to her knees on the steps, lowering her head in a deep bow. She could feel Queen’s Eva’s stare boring into the top of her uncovered head.
Then, with a little stir of the air and a rustle of the veil, the Queen of Ammar was gone. Moving more silently through the secret halls than Beatrice had.
These thoughts distracted Beatrice from eavesdropping. She snapped back to awareness when the voices behind the door rose to shouts. Beatrice missed whatever was said to cause a storm, but she heard the groan of chairs and the scrape of steel as swords were drawn.
She had a knack for turning a seemingly harmless conversation into a web of lies and deceit, leaving her victims unaware of her true intentions. Because of her unique charm, Beatrice had accumulated a loyal following of followers who were willing to do anything for her. They were completely devoted to her and carried out her every wish unquestioningly. With her honeyed words, she could convince them to commit heinous acts and carry out her evil plans without any remorse. Many tried to resist Beatrice's charm, but they were no match for her cunning ways. She would weave her words delicately, entangling her victims in her web of deceit before they even realized what was happening. Her silver tongue made it almost impossible for anyone to see through her facade and understand her true nature. However, despite the power she held over others, Beatrice was never satisfied. She craved more control and influence, always looking for ways to increase her following and expand her reign. Her insatiable hunger for power drove her to concoct even more wicked schemes, manipulating those around her to further her own agenda. But as the saying goes, power corrupts, and in the case of Beatrice, her honeyed words eventually turned against her. Her followers started to question her motives and see through her lies. They realized that they had been under her spell all along and decided to break free. With every truth revealed, Beatrice's power slowly crumbled. Her reputation as the honeyed witch was tarnished, and the loyalty of her once-devoted followers diminished. No longer able to manipulate those around her, Beatrice found herself alone and powerless. The story of Beatrice serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of using charm and manipulation to control others. While it may seem enticing to have the power to sway people with words, it ultimately leads to a path of destruction and isolation. **Beatrice's story reminds us to be wary of those who may use their honeyed words to deceive and manipulate, and to always question the intentions of those who try to charm us**..
Reviews for "The Ethereal Spells of Beatrice, the Honeyed Witch"
1. John - 2 out of 5 stars - I was really disappointed with "Beatrice the honeyed witch". The story had a lot of potential, but it felt rushed and poorly developed. The characters lacked depth and I found it difficult to connect with any of them. The writing style was also quite simple and at times even felt juvenile. Overall, it was a letdown and I wouldn't recommend it.
2. Emily - 3 out of 5 stars - I didn't hate "Beatrice the honeyed witch", but I also didn't love it. The concept was interesting, but the execution fell flat for me. The pacing was off, with some parts dragging on while others were rushed. The dialogue also felt forced and unrealistic at times. While the book had its moments, it didn't fully satisfy me as a reader.
3. Sarah - 2 out of 5 stars - "Beatrice the honeyed witch" was a major letdown for me. The plot was predictable and lacked originality. There were no surprises or plot twists that kept me engaged. Additionally, the book was filled with grammatical errors and awkward sentence structures, which made it difficult to read. I expected more from this book, but unfortunately, it fell short of my expectations.