At the end of the long feasting table sat Keller and the other knights, having a serious conversation from what Chrystobel could see, which was why she hadn’t joined them. She assumed, correctly, that they had a great deal to talk about so she focused on her kitchen duties to ensure that everyone had enough to eat. She wasn’t comfortable enough, or bold enough, to join the knights’ conversation.
The feasting and the conversation went for most of the day and on into the early evening. Everyone seemed quite caught up in their conversation and ale. As the evening meal approached, the cook prepared a large quantity of mice pies – literally, pies filled with cooked, de-boned mice, onions, turnips, carrots, beans, and garlic, baked until the crust of the pie was a deep golden brown. Mice were very plentiful at Nether and the cook had managed to find a way to utilize the pests, cooking them into a tasty pie. Like rabbit or any other rodent, the Welsh cooks made use of what they could find and the result, in this case, was a clever and delicious result.
By the time the mice pies rolled out for the diners, Chrystobel took a couple of the male servants and went to the keep, down in the bowels of the stores where they kept their hoard of alcohol. They had a small brewery near the kitchens where they made ale using the barley grown on Nether lands, but they also made cider fermented with apples, cherry juice, honey, and peppercorns. It was a very potent cider with a powerful kick, hence, it was only brought out for special occasions. Otherwise, it was left to continue aging in the cold, dark stores, growing more potent by the day. Every time they brought out the bottles, there seemed to be more of a punch to it.
As the evening deepened, more alcohol was distributed. The ale, as it was more plentiful, was given to the troops supping in the bailey while Chrystobel took big bottles of the powerful cider into the hall. The servants distributed the bottles onto the tables and, on top of the ale that the men had been drinking most of the afternoon, the introduction of the cider turned most of them into drunken fools not a half-hour later. The legendary cider packed a more powerful punch that normal being ingested on top of the ale. In fact, things began to veer out of control after the mice pies were gone and the cider was in steady supply.
Back in the corner of the hall, Chrystobel could see that the feast was turning into wild drunken debauchery. The men were now playing games of chance, gambling on the tabletops as they drank, or betting each other that one could jump off of the feasting table higher and farther than another man could. Then, someone would vomit, and then ten more men would vomit, spraying it all over the wall and floor nearby. More laughter about it, then urination would follow. Men would pass out on the floor.
Open-mouthed, Chrystobel watched the increased activities with great concern and some awe. She’d never seen such drunkenness. Izlyn, who had been helping in the kitchens, heard the commotion going on and came to stand next to her sister, wide-eyed at the spectacle. Holding hands tightly, they stood and watched with shock and bewilderment as George, as drunk as a giddy fool, jumped on top of the feasting table and began singing ribald songs.
“There once was an old whore named Rose,
Who would lick off the tips of your toes!
In passion, ‘tis odd, she would swear that, by God,
A tree was as big as your rod!”
The men roared with glee, singing the chorus of the song as loud as they could. They weren’t really singing. In fact, they were shouting and slamming their wooden cups against the floor, the wall, or the table. George was dancing around on the table, drunkenly kicking cups and trenchers onto the floor, including Gart’s. Frustrated, Gart reached up and yanked him down. George ended up in a pile on the floor as Aimery, even drunker than his brother, leapt up in his place. He launched into a well-known song, much repeated in inns and taverns throughout England and Wales.
“A young man came to Tilly Nodden,
His heart so full and pure.
Upon the step of Tilly Nodden,
His wants would find no cure.”
When it came to the chorus, Aimery lifted his hands to encourage every man to sing with him. Soon, the hall of Nether was filled with the sounds of English voices, all joined in drunken revelry.
“Aye! Tilly, Tilly, my goddess near,
Can ye spare me a glance from those eyes?
My Tilly, sweet Tilly, be my lover so dear,
I’m a-wantin’ a slap of those thighs!”
The men laughed uproariously, mostly because Aimery was bouncing around on the table, doing a jig like an idiot. But he slowed long enough to sing the last verse with the greatest flourish.
“Then our young man, his life less grand,
Since the day he met our Tilly.
His love for her nearly drove him daft,
When he discover’d not a puss, but a shaft!”
Cups pounded on the tables and walls loudly as men shouted a refrain of the chorus. Aimery leapt down from the table, pulled his brother up from the floor, and began dancing with him, crazily, around the head table while the soldiers screamed encouragement. The two of them held each other in an embrace as they danced a wild jig around the room, suddenly coming to a stop when they spied Chrystobel and Izlyn. Aimery pointed at the pair.
“Look!” he cried. “The two most beautiful women in all of Wales!”
The entire room turned to look at Chrystobel and Izlyn, standing against the wall, and before they could run off, George and Aimery had them cornered.
“Come and dance with me, Lady de Poyer,” Aimery begged. “It is a night for celebration!”
Chrystobel was torn between fear and humor with Aimery’s drunken antics. He had her by the wrist and she was trying to pull away.
“Nay,” she insisted. “I do not dance.”
“What?” Aimery bellowed, outraged. “A beautiful woman who does not dance? It is a crime! A tragedy! An outrage!”
Chrystobel was shaking her head even as he tried to drag her away from the wall. “Nay,” she said, more firmly. “I do not dance. Please let me go.”
Aimery wasn’t trying to be cruel. He was simply drunk and had little self-control. To his right, George had managed to grab Izlyn, who was paralyzed with fear as the man held on to her. When Chrystobel looked over and saw the expression of terror on her sister’s face, something within her snapped. Izlyn was petrified and George didn’t seem to notice. All Chrystobel could hear or see were visions of Gryffyn as he grabbed Izlyn to haul her away to the vault while she had been helpless to intervene. How many nights had she lain awake, weeping because she couldn’t help her sister? But this was different. Gryffyn wasn’t here and Chrystobel wasn’t helpless in the least. She could defend her baby sister, however small the gesture, against a drunken knight. Yanking her arm away from Aimery, she reached over and slapped George across the face.
“Let her go!” she roared, clutching her sister fiercely against her. “Can you not see that she does not wish to dance?”