They said the lord's daughter was beautiful enough to catch a king, if only she could stay quiet, if only she would listen. And for the most part, she was quiet enough, and certainly pretty enough.

But she was an explorer and a fighter, and that would never do. She loved her home fiercely, she knew every stone and every portrait, had looked out every window. She had run in all the fields and smelled every kind of flower along the forest paths. It would have been admirable in a son, this kind of devotion to one's inheritance, to one's home, but the lord had no son, just a beautiful, headstrong daughter.

He loved the girl too much to try and force her to change her ways. He let her read when a proper lady ought to have been sewing, he smiled when he heard her common songs in the hall. But he was worried for her future, worried that his daughter would submit to no man, even if it meant staying in her beloved castle longer. If he did not marry the girl off, the property must become his nephew's, a sleazy boy of sixteen who would undoubtedly ruin the place. No, the girl would inherit, and he must marry her off to a man who wouldn't crush her spirit.

The lord loved his daughter, bold and fiery though she was, with her hair in proper braids over a proper gown as she lectured knights about their conduct. He admired her boldness, but it worried him all the same.

The lord loved his daughter, and so he devised a plan— she would keep the castle, it would be willed in name to her husband but the girl would have all the power. Yes, that was the best solution by far— marry her to some nice young knight, and leave her comfortable. It was the best he could do for his daughter, in this troubled world, where a girl with fire would inevitably be burned.

He had found the perfect groom, too— the younger son of an old friend, a quiet boy just a few months older than the lord's daughter who loved to read as she did. So the lord made plans with his old friend— give me your younger son to marry my daughter, and he will be lord of all my estate. It will rescue him from the Church.

So it was set— at summer's end the boy would be brought to the castle by the sea, and he would marry the lord's beautiful daughter, and both would be secure.

The lord thought long and hard about how he would tell the girl— she was a young woman now, and ought to expect marriage, but he could not think of a way to word this, this sentence that would alter her life forever. And the more the aging lord thought about it, the more he realised that his daughter was headstrong and knew the forest, that she might run away or even leap off the cliffs she loved to walk by. He couldn't bear to lose his daughter that way, his only child, and so he decided it would be best not to tell her for a while.

And so the daughter spent her summer singing old songs to the stones of the hall, reading her books under the tree that overlooked the sea, writing feverishly her plans for a better world in the moonlight.

The lord approached her one day as she sat by the cliff, throwing her songs into the salt air, where they crashed with the waves on the grey rocks below.

"'Twas the day that the prince came to the town

With his horses white and his pillows of down

And the maiden fell for him then and there

For the tall golden prince with his long golden hair.

The queen in her tower, o! The queen in her tower

Had naught but evil there in her heart

And she saw the gold prince, her only son

And she saw in the girl a prize to be won."

The daughter turned around, pausing her ballad, her own long golden hair blowing in the wind, and faced her father. "Hello, Papa," she said with a smile.

And the lord could not bring himself to say what he wanted to, not as he looked at his little girl as she stood there, by the cliff, looking so peaceful. So he embraced her gently, kissing her head, and she embraced him back.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, but he shook his head.

"Nothing," he replied. "It will be alright in the end."

And so summer crept towards its end, and the lord saw more and more clearly that his daughter should not be told of her wedding that was fast approaching. He had ordered a new gown for her, and sworn the dressmaker to secrecy, and everything was ready except the bride.

But she would be heartbroken by the news, thought the poor father, and she was too headstrong by far to accept her father's news. Besides, the boy was gentle and they would get along wonderfully. It was a perfect match, the kind that was made only once in a generation.

So the lord was silent, and he watched his daughter with satisfaction, knowing that he would leave her secure, that she would forever be able to spend the days in her garden, or discussing poetry with her husband. If he told her now, she might make a rash decision.

The boy arrived at dawn the day he was supposed to, a bright-eyed boy of twenty-one with dark hair that curled under his cap. It was a bright and sunny day, the last glow of summer giving way to the gold of autumn.

After their formalities, the lord took the boy by the arm.

"Swear an oath to me," he said quietly, " that you will never harm my daughter. You will never hit her, you will never force her to your bed. You will never stop her from her reading or her music. I will kill you myself if you harm her."

"I swear," replied the boy solemnly, "and I assure you I never had any intention of harming her in any way."

The boy was sincere, the lord could tell. He had wanted to join the priesthood, and it showed in his solemnity.

And the lord was satisfied, and went to finally tell his daughter that she would be married by sundown.

"No," she said, already wearing the new gown. "I won't believe it, Papa." Tears began to spring to her eyes. "Why would you do it to me?"

"You'll be happy," the lord said comfortingly, but the effect was lost.

"That isn't what I'm talking about," said the daughter. "I know that you love me. I trust you've chosen a good man. And anything, anything, that lets me stay in my home is wonderful. I want to know why you wouldn't tell me this. You chose my husband for me, which I don't mind much. But then you planned everything, and you didn't even tell me it would happen? I had no chance to relish my last night as a single woman, no chance to prepare. This marriage for you may have been a contract, but for me it is likely what will kill me. And you couldn't be bothered to tell me, the bride, that a wedding was taking place?"

"I didn't know how," replied the lord weakly. "I didn't want you to do anything rash," he tried to continue, but the words died on his tongue.

The girl was silent for a moment.

"I would have married happily," she murmured, more to the window than to her father, "and I'll try my best to be happy. But I am hurt that you didn't trust my love for this land."

She turned back to him. "I would do anything to keep my home," she said.

And then she was silent, brushing her hair in long strokes, her heart throbbing silently in her ears. Yes, she'd go through with this, and she'd do anything to keep her home.

"Are you alright?" asked the boy at the banquet table after the ceremony. "You're quiet."

The girl managed a small smile. "I'm alright. Nervous, I suppose, and underprepared." She dropped her voice. "I was not told until this morning that I would be married by evening."

And her new husband felt a rush of pity for her, of affection for this girl he barely knew but was tied to for life. He reaffirmed in his mind the oath he had sworn to her father. It had been true before, but now he furthered it: not only would he never lay a hand on her, he would do anything to protect her.

In the dark bedchamber he turned to his new wife. "I won't touch you if you don't want me to. I'll sleep on the floor. I—"

He was stopped by her finger on his lips. "Before anything else, this marriage is for my castle. I need an heir. Heirs are not brought about when the husband sleeps alone on the floor."

She lowered her finger back to her side, in the folds of her magnificent gown. "Only let us agree on something— let us agree to be friends, to work together for our good instead of as individuals. Please, please, let us agree. I don't want to spend my life miserably."

He agreed almost immediately, feeling that it was right in his very soul.

"Thank you," said the girl, and she smiled. "You don't know what it means to me."

"I don't want to be here much either," he said. "The general idea of marrying, anyway. I wanted to be a priest, but my father insisted I marry instead. I don't want to be miserable either."

"It won't be easy," replied the girl bluntly. "We'll have to work hard, both of us."

"I swear I will," he whispered, and his words were sanctified by the breeze blowing through the open window.

The girl realised then how lonely she had been, that she had spent so much time in her books and had forgotten how badly she had needed to connect with another human being. And it was a relief to her, to have this gentle young man as her groom, and she trusted him in a way that she almost thought was foolhardy.

And they decided, together, that they would be happy, together.

In the morning she swept by her father without saying a word. He looked at her sadly, but she laughed in the garden with her husband, though she was stone silent for her father.

He lay dying several years later, when his daughter had had a little son with dark golden hair. The young husband had become a strong leader, and as the lord breathed his last he was calmed by the faith that his castle and his lands would be taken good care of.

His daughter appeared at the door silently, having said nothing to her father since the day she'd been married. Tears glistened in her eyes, and weakly the lord looked up from his downy pillow.

"I always loved you," he whispered, "I have made mistakes, but I never wished to hurt you." And then the world went dark around him, and before the daughter could reply, his breath stopped.

She cried a long time for her father, but there was nothing to be done— he was dead, and she realised now that he could not have been perfect, but he had deserved her apology.