The Concubine Does Not Love the Emperor - Chapter 9

Margaret often found himself drawn to his father’s study. Within its hallowed walls, grand and resplendent portraits adorned the space, hinting at the legacy that resided within.

“Behold, Princess Gianna, the First of Her Name, from the House of Nalvan,” his father declared with reverence.

Seated upon her regal throne, the queen possessed an elegance that transcended time. A cascade of fiery red hair crowned her head, intricately woven and bedecked with precious gems, each one shimmering in the light. Her long and slender fingers, clasped a staff, and the rings adorning them were an ensemble of exquisite gemstones.

The painter had captured every detail meticulously, from the flush of May on the queen’s cheeks to the enchanting allure that cloaked her being. It was as if her essence had been preserved on canvas and her allure frozen in time.

“For five decades, she ruled with the grace of a woman. And your veins carry her legacy,” his father continued, his voice filled with pride.

This tale harks back three centuries, to a time of shifting dynasties. In the intervening years, the royal lineage had changed hands twice over, and those who had sired fathers and grandfathers before were soldiers, not monarchs.

Despite being part of a lineage esteemed as the Earl’s family and guardians of the palace for generations, Margaret’s father wore his heritage with unwavering pride, as if the blood of kings still flowed through his veins. Perhaps it was a yearning for the sole queen that their lineage had produced, especially when an heir to carry on his legacy was yet to be born.

Klein was born after a trial as arduous as it was harrowing. The narrative of his birth was etched in servant lore, a story where the mother’s life was expendable as long as the child’s endured. Fortunate was her mother, for she survived, but the anticipated child turned out to be a girl, not the hoped-for boy.

Hana, the housemaid, delicately added to the atmosphere thick with disappointment, “The infant is a vision of beauty. Almost as if Princess Gianna the First herself has been reborn.”

Perhaps an attempt to avert resentment from festering within her father’s heart, but that mere utterance sealed the infant’s destiny.

“Those high cheekbones resemble hers. Indeed. A reflection of Gianna,” her father affirmed with a touch of sagacity.

As an embodiment of knowledge in her chosen profession, it was apparent that he was privy to the workings of the government, whether clandestine or overt. Death might claim his wife, but surrendering to despair was a notion far removed from his considerations.

“Given her constitution, future pregnancies might prove arduous.”

The doctor’s pronouncement led Klein’s father to christen his newborn daughter with the queen’s original name, Margaret.

From the very first steps she took as a toddler, a toy sword was gripped firmly in Margaret’s hand instead of a jingling rattle. In lieu of blossoms, a toy lance was clutched in her tiny fist. Her mother had ordered trousers and shirts from the tailor, a far cry from the conventional dresses.

Whether her preferences leaned toward dresses, flowers, embroidery, or piano, Margaret was still uncertain. She often gazed longingly at things she couldn’t possess, driven by an unquenchable desire.

Upon reaching the age of eight, boys were traditionally enrolled in military academies, a passage through which even nobles not destined for the military sphere passed. Despite the land having seen the rise of queens, the notion of girls entering the ranks of these academies was far from feasible.

As an alternative, on her eighth birthday, Klein’s father introduced her to a new private tutor. Rather than bestowing extravagant gifts, Margaret found herself with a boy who had previously been begging along the streets, now her unexpected present. Dresses were banished, and dolls became a distant thought. Jewels and trinkets had no place. The words spoken in exasperation were but a heat-of-the-moment retort, rejecting all the enticing confections.

Upon witnessing the branded marks borne by the other boys, Margaret’s father swiftly negotiated a sum—perhaps insignificant to him yet undoubtedly significant to the boy’s previous custodian. “I shall henceforth step back from your education. This child shall be your constant companion, except during your sleeping hours.”

The boy without a name lay prone, anticipation in his posture as he awaited Margaret’s call. 

“What shall I call you?”

“They call me Klein, Master.”

With eyes and hair as dark as midnight, he was of the same age as Margaret and had traveled from a southern land even further below Berthé.

“You needn’t address me as ‘Master.’ Since I lack a formal title, you may refer to me by name.”

“I cannot comply.”

He bore the semblance of invisible chains, akin to one sold in a place where the vestiges of the slave system persisted. “Then address me as others do—’young lady.’ The term ‘Master’ sends shivers down my spine.”

Chapter 

Initially, Margaret was unsettled by his excessively submissive demeanor. However, the understanding dawned that this was a survival strategy in the face of casual disregard from others, a desperate dance to navigate life.

As they shared lessons and meals, an evolving camaraderie caused Margaret to gradually view him as a brother.

In Klein’s presence, a sense of ease enveloped her. It was only natural, given his uncanny ability to anticipate her emotions, to always be a step ahead in comprehending her unspoken desires.

With her tenth birthday came a shift in the intensity of her studies. The once solitary home tutor had multiplied into a quintet, and among them, the newly appointed foreign language instructor displayed an evident aversion to Klein.

A certain day found Margaret offering her a pencil, having exhausted his own. The foreign language instructor’s scrutiny sharpened at this gesture.

“Seems like an apt barter in the context of the theme of slavery, doesn’t it?” he mused.

“Sir, Klein is not a slave. He is my companion,” she retorted.

“Miss, the abolishment of the slave system does not equate to the transformation of slaves into commoners. Recall our recent lesson about the Bormand Slave Market. And now, Klein, enlighten us. What sets a slave apart from a commoner?”

Klein’s response was hesitant, as if reluctant to speak. Egged on by the instructor’s derisive tone, he finally replied. “The fundamental distinction lies in freedom.”

There was a tinge of exasperation in Klein’s face as he voiced his answer.

“Explain.”

“A slave remains bereft of a wage even for labor, remains subservient to an overbearing master, and is relegated to a status akin to property rather than a person…”

“That will suffice!”

The tremulous timbre of his voice, devoid of assertiveness, grated on her ears. With a firm strike against the desk, she rose from her seat. The instructor remained unperturbed, meting out a stinging tap to Klein’s cheek with his elongated rod.

Though it was an audacious gesture, Klein bore the humiliation, continuing his narration with his head bowed.

“Furthermore, marriage remains beyond reach without the master’s consent.”

“I shall inform my father of this!”

Her voice, a fervent proclamation, reverberated across the room. Discomfort clung to her, its source eluding her grasp. The instructor’s lips curled upward, a hint of amusement glimmering in his eyes, as if he had foreseen this reaction. An esteemed teacher, who imparted knowledge to the progeny of various noble families, he exuded an air of fearlessness in the face of potential consequences.

“Very well, young lady. We shall conclude today’s lesson. Please extend my regards to the Earl.”

With a final, sardonic flourish, he took his leave. Turning to Klein, she inquired about his well-being, prompting a forced smile from him. In her innocence, she hastened to her father, recounting the tale with fervor. Perhaps, in the fervor of the moment, she embellished the account beyond reality.

Her father, who had been silently listening to her vent, merely responded with a brief acknowledgment of understanding. The foreign language instructor was immediately replaced. She felt a sense of satisfaction. In the moment, it felt like her victory. Unaware of the storm brewing in Klein’s heart due to her own happiness, she failed to notice the darkening of his expression.

From that moment on, every teacher’s attitude toward Klein underwent a transformation.

“Miss Margaret, your scores have fallen significantly.”

“The scope of material to learn was too extensive.”

“Klein, step forward.”

She failed to grasp the reason why the teacher had suddenly called for Klein. She assumed it was a casual gesture to praise him for outperforming her in scores.

Klein had apparently already sensed the situation, as he walked up and obediently extended his hand.

“It’s as many as the mistakes you made.”

As the wooden rod, carved from willow, sliced through the air with a chilling sound, she remained oblivious to the unfolding events. The slender wood bent softly as it struck Klein, in response to the forceful blow from the instructor. Though she had tried to intervene, the teacher paid her no heed, striking Klein precisely as many times as the number of mistakes she had made.

Despite her astonished expression, the boy returned to his place seemingly unaffected, brushing his hand against his hip nonchalantly.

While her father might not view her as a content daughter, she had never made a mistake or fallen short enough to warrant punishment. Unfortunately, that was a pattern destined to continue.

“Miss Margaret has lost.”

Even if Klein won after a duel,

“You’ve forgotten your homework.”

Even if she neglected her responsibilities,

“How many arrows missed the target?”

Every day, without fail, Klein endured the punishment on her behalf. Palm strikes, backhand slaps—even on his calves—he suffered relentless chastisement, acting as a surrogate recipient of her excuses.

Her father imparted a lesson about social hierarchy that she could never forget, employing a method that etched the concept indelibly into her mind. It was a sort of warning, a message delivered in a unique manner.

“Come here.”

Munching on her lip, he gestured with his hand. Klein, with an air of bashfulness, hesitantly approached, keeping his hands behind his back.

“Stay still.”

Unaware of the precious tincture that the family physician had secretly bestowed upon her from the Count as a concealed remedy, she carelessly flicked her finger, not realizing its worth.

“It’s not the fault of the master. Even the teacher isn’t entirely to blame. It’s just a part of life.”

Quick-witted Klein swiftly discerned the guilt reflected in her gaze. Although tears welled up, he bit his lip to suppress them.

“And this is precious, you know. I’ll get better if I apply saliva.”

“Don’t lie!”

“It’s true. If you apply saliva on any wounds you’ve gotten since childhood,…”

She shot a fierce glare at Klein, employing the most menacing expression she could muster. However, his tearful eyes, falling with a splash, seemed to catch him off guard, and he hastily extended his hand.

Faint imprints of the rod marred his small palm. Fresh bruises joined those from earlier, the marks of my inadequacy.

“What is this? What’s happened?”

Margaret grumbled, applying ointment to his hand. It was evident that he had been struck again, likely in a spot where he hadn’t yet healed.

“It seems like the master’s eyes are malfunctioning.”

As she continued to administer the ointment, Klein quickly pressed my eyelids down with his own sleeve. The pungent scent of the medicine filled the air.