Story for the Day: A Royal Wedding

Still doing rewrites for book one. Here is a small preview of something else I'm writing at the same time:

A Royal Wedding
                The Diras castle keep was abustle with talk of a royal wedding, and as the marriage in question was not to take place in the Frewyn capital, the maids and servants had all the advantage of gossip on the subject and none of the inconvenience in preparing for a wedding. The bride was to be admired by the men and the groom was to be object of every woman’s fastidiousness. If his hair was not unforgivable then his face was untidy, if he was too handsome then his prospects had made up for it, and if he was deemed too wealthy then only the improvements he would gain by marriage would save him from a woman’s judgment. The yeoman and servants’ quarters were uproar when the news had trickled down from the cracks of the royal court. The cousins of nobles had send letters, the gentry spoke of it amongst themselves in fiendish whispers, and soon the entire castle had heard of the impending match.
                Alasdair had received word of the matrimony by way of the herald, who came to the royal chamber before court to convey that his majesty was expected to make an appearance at this noble’s charade. He scoffed at the two names he was given, conveyed the news to Carrigh, and the king and queen of Frewyn cast their own playful aspersions on the match over their private breakfast.
                 As the wedding was expected to take place soon, Carrigh thought it advisable to prepare Alasdair’s ceremonial jerkin. She re-embroidered the cuffs, secured the cinched waist and bid Alasdair to walk about in it for a few minutes to gauge the garment’s fit. He walked the length of the main hall toward the gallery whereupon entering saw the commander walking toward him across the training yard.    
                “You look splendid for this hour of the day,” said she, smiling as she approached. “I hope you’ve come to tell me one of the nobles has died. It will make my morning a happy one.”
                “The Marquis is in excellent health,” Alasdair said somewhat apologetically.
                “Oh, dread. Well, he shall die one day and when he does the occupants of this castle shall rejoice, courtesy of Dobhin, I assure you. I would like to believe that you’re wearing your favourite item for me. I know I warrant such an occasion,” she laughed.   
                “Prince- or rather- King Aldan is getting married,” Alasdair explained.
                “And you’re being asked to attend this travesty?”
                “Who would be desperate enough to marry Aldan?
                “Her Lady of Sesterna.”
                The commander paused in deliberation, and the more she considered the news the wider she smiled. “Oh, that’s rather a perfect match,” she fleered. “Similar character, equally horrid temper. He is thirty-five, she is seventeen: he, like every man of his rank and sagacious age, should be delighted to have a young and affected girl for such a connection. He has all the advantage of conceited manners and and she has all the benefit of contrived superiority. They shall either make each other miserable or be the happiest couple in the world. Which kingdom shall be paying for this nonsense?” 
                “Of course,” the commander snickered. “His is all the honour to bestow, and she can give none by being of inferior birth. I daresay this shall be a glorious pretense. You must take Dobhin and my stepbrothers with you. They will make the occasion an excellent one.”
                “Maybe I will,” Alasdair said in a gentle voice. He widened his eyes and gave his friend a pleading look.
                “You shall have Sarasa for company,” she sighed. “I daresay he is ever so much more entertaining that I am.”
                “I am asking you to come.”
                “I am aware of that, but I wasn’t aware of you abhorring me so much as to ask me twice. You will be able to wear your crisp jerkin. Looking more fashionable than Aldan should be all your consolation.”
                “Please, don’t make me endure both Sarasa and Aldan alone.”
                The commander was about to protest when Alasdair surrendered to using tactics of desperation. He knelt before her and held his hands up to her in supplication. The incursion of odd looks from passing nobles was enough for the commander to concede, and Alasdair sprang up from the ground with a brilliant smile.
                “Very well,” the commander groaned. “If I tell my mate there will be the possibility of cake, I’m certain he will consider the visit a worthy venture. You know all of his interest lies in the chance of there being a chocolate cake for him to steal from the rest of the guests.”
                “For Aldan’s sake, I hope there is one,” Alasdair said in a bitter tone. “I’ve never met someone so vain in all my life.” Alasdair suddenly caught his reflection in one of the gallery windows and observed there was a hair out of place, curling over his forehead. He panicked and smoothed it back instantly.
                The commander laughed and was about to tell her king that Allande might had done well to meet Aldan’s self-satisfaction and self-importance, but where vanity was concerned, Alasdair had inherited enough of it to make the state of his hair all his ambition.