Chapter 17
The Second Prince
The second prince, Philip. In truth, Diana had never had any real connection with this man. Philip died young, the victim of an assassination. By the time she properly entered high society and came to hear of him, he was already gone.
He was about the same age as Ferdinand, wasn’t he? Only around ten months apart. The first queen gave birth to Ferdinand, and ten months later the second queen gave birth to Philip.
She remembered that her father had once considered him as a potential fiancé for her. But apart from that, this man was someone she knew absolutely nothing about—so seeing him waiting not in the drawing room but standing right outside the door made it clear enough.
“Lady! It’s a pleasure to meet you!”
Philip’s hair was the royal family’s trademark—pure, shimmering gold. His eyes were a strange green with a brownish tint, not a bright refreshing green but something subtler. Unlike Ferdinand, who half-closed his eyes and tilted his chin as though trying to look like an adult, Philip’s open and unaffected demeanor wasn’t unpleasant at all.
As soon as he saw Diana, Philip broke into a wide grin.
Though it was their very first meeting, he bounded up to her, grabbed her hand, and shook it vigorously. What’s with this inappropriate sense of closeness? Did we have some connection I don’t remember? Diana slipped her hand free and bent politely at the waist.
“I greet Your Highness.”
At her elegant courtesy, Philip’s lips curled upward.
“I’m glad to meet you, Lady! I dropped by while traveling abroad! You might end up becoming my sister-in-law, after all. And I have some business too.”
“My father or my brother, perhaps…?”
“I have no business with the Duke or the Young Lord. I have business with you, Lady.”
Business with me? Diana moved to enter the drawing room. She signaled Giscard, who had followed behind, to wait outside and stepped in. Because of that, she didn’t hear the words that slipped out of Giscard’s mouth:
“…Sister-in-law?”
“Your tea service is a mess.”
That was Philip’s first remark. But it wasn’t insulting or meant to offend—merely an honest observation about the tea.
“I apologize, Your Highness. I’ll make sure to educate my servants more thoroughly.”
Should she praise Mirva’s quick recovery, or curse the way she meddled? Diana ordered the maid pouring the tea to bring new cups and fresh leaves, then dismissed her. She could brew tea well enough herself. In the Kingdom of Lodbrok, wary of poison, she had always prepared her own tea.
Philip watched her steeping the leaves with open curiosity. Some nobles did prepare their own tea, but it wasn’t a common sight. Her graceful movements as she poured were elegant. He raised the cup and took a sip.
“It’s good.”
Philip said it bluntly again.
“So, what brings Your Highness here?”
At her question, Philip grinned mischievously.
“In truth, that story about dropping by while traveling is just a cover. You always need a convenient excuse in front of people. The real reason I came… was to meet you.”
What? Was Philip always like this? His manners were so beyond the pale that she didn’t even know where to begin correcting them. A royal visit wasn’t supposed to be so sudden—at the very least…
“Here.”
Diana looked at the letter he extended to her. It was plastered with pink and bright red silk ribbons. A man in dark blue clothes holding out such a gaudy letter was not the most dignified sight. Diana accepted it anyway.
“It’s from Ionia.”
“From… Princess Ionia?”
“Can you believe she asked me to play courier? Incredible.”
He muttered grumpily as he drank more tea. Ionia could easily have had a servant deliver it…
“She was so insistent that it mustn’t fall into anyone else’s hands that I had no choice.”
As though reading her thoughts, Philip complained again. Diana’s hands trembled slightly as she unfolded the dazzling letter paper.
‘To Sister Anne.’
Ionia was calling her by a nickname. And not even unnie (sister), but “ungni”—a childish, playful variation.
*‘Thanks to you, I had a happy birthday. Ah, they say “ungni” is a cute way of calling one’s older sister. We aren’t close yet, but someday I want to be able to call you that!
I want to see Anne, but I don’t have a proper excuse.
They say I’m still too young to host a tea party.
So let’s exchange letters like this instead.
Oh! And whatever Philip says—it’s all lies!’*
It was not a polished royal letter, but the sort of thing a ten-year-old child would write. The sight of it brought a smile to Diana’s lips.
“You must be very fond of Princess Ionia.”
Strangely enough, though Philip was Ferdinand’s half-brother, here he was running such errands for her.
“Fond? That little troublemaker?”
He shook his head as though exasperated. Yet the tone held the same kind of affection he used when speaking of Alexa. After all, he had gone out of his way to deliver this letter himself.
“It’s not easy to visit someone you’ve barely spoken with. You’re a kind brother.”
“….”
When she said it with a gentle smile, Philip’s face flushed scarlet. He glanced sideways at her, mumbling something under his breath.
“I’ll write a reply for Her Highness.”
When Diana pulled the bell cord, the one who entered was none other than Giscard. Ah, I’d left him waiting outside the door.
“I need writing materials, please.”
Bowing, Giscard stepped out to fetch them. Philip watched him go, eyes fixed.
“Is he your servant?”
“No. My slave.”
“Slave?”
Philip kept staring after him. Ah yes, Giscard had been given to her as a slave by the royal palace of Farnborough.
“Do you recognize him?”
Could it be he’d seen Giscard at the Farnborough palace? She entertained the hope, but Philip furrowed his brows and shook his head.
“No, not that.”
His words felt vague. After some time, Giscard returned with pen, paper, and ink. Diana dipped the quill and began writing. Scratch, scratch—her pen flowed smoothly, elegant letters unfurling.
For a while, the two boys watched her. She wrote with a calm concentration, none of the restlessness of children her age. Her eyes lowered, serene, scanning each line as she wrote.
At one point, a curl slipped loose from the ribbon binding her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear before bending again to her work. The two boys stared, as if spellbound.
When at last she set down her quill and looked up at them, they realized they had been captivated without knowing it.
“What did you write?”
Philip asked brightly, almost too brightly. Diana noticed nothing strange.
“I wrote that I would ask Her Majesty the Queen if she might permit me to converse with the princess.”
He snatched the letter and skimmed it. It was true.
“Boring.”
It was a stiff, literal message, stripped even of polite embellishment. Diana Brienne—too much like an adult for a twelve-year-old. Philip scowled.
“Can’t you put some feeling into it?”
“I did put in feeling.”
“Read it yourself. Does this sound heartfelt to you?”
Philip thrust the letter toward the awkwardly lingering Giscard without thinking. Giscard’s face hardened slightly. Diana looked at him, puzzled.
“See?”
But Giscard said nothing. Philip suddenly realized his mistake. He had shown the lady’s letter to a slave.
“Ah, sorry. That was rude of me.”
“….”
Seeing Diana’s face tighten, Philip gave a sheepish smile.
“Well then, I’ll go deliver it. I’m just the messenger, after all. No need to see me out.”
And with that, Philip fled the room. He was so hasty that the papers on the desk fluttered into disarray. The silence left behind was chilling, like the stillness after a storm has wrecked everything in its path.
“Ha…”
Diana exhaled, tension draining as she sank into her seat. Philip was strangely unreserved. How could a prince be so noisy, so impolite…?
Quietly, Giscard gathered the scattered papers. Suddenly, his gaze fell on one of the sheets she had scribbled on earlier—she had only been testing the pen before writing the real letter.
On it, she had written a single word:
‘Giscard.’
He had seen it.
“I—it was just… it just came to mind.”
“….”
“Your name just came to mind, that’s all.”
“My… name…”
He murmured in a low voice, clutching the sheet tightly and staring at it. Diana realized he was holding it upside down.
“…You can’t read?”
“….”
At her question, Giscard raised his head, and his expression seemed filled with naked shame.
Come to think of it, Philip had acted strangely earlier too. Diana was momentarily at a loss for words. Illiterate? Giscard? In her previous life, she had never once thought him unable to read.
“Really? You?”
Then when did he learn? As a mercenary? By the time he became king, he must have been literate, surely? Diana stared at the boy steeped in humiliation. That gaze sparked his anger.
“If you think I’m pathetic…”
“No. I’m just surprised.”
“….”
“Shall I find you a teacher?”
Giscard frowned.
“That’s not necessary.”
“….”
“Most slaves can’t read. What good would literacy do a slave?”
“….”
“And who would bother to teach a slave to read?”
He’s just a child. Seeing him sulk so stubbornly, finally showing his age, the disgust she had once felt toward him evaporated. Seeing his immaturity… she thought she might be able to save him after all.
“You’d be a cleverer slave for it.”
“….”
“To be my slave, you’ll need to be literate too.”
“….”
“I’ll teach you myself.”
Smiling, Diana wrote again on the sheet Giscard held and handed it back.
‘Giscard.’
She gave it to him. Giscard seemed to realize then that it was his name. How strange. This girl who called herself his master had changed his clothes, made him wash, pressed him to learn the sword… and now promised to teach him letters.
Staring at her, Giscard felt unbearable shame. That he couldn’t read even a simple name—something every child his age would know. Rage at his own ignorance. He had been mocked so often for being illiterate—even his late mother had ridiculed him.
But Diana Brienne didn’t laugh. She was surprised, but then gently said she would teach him. She offered what he had never been able to master on his own. She promised to open a new world for him.
Was this too because she thought it was “the right thing to do”?
Strange. Diana Brienne was truly strange.
