A Tale of Two Castles

Among all the animals there was not a single cat.

Servants were placing trestles for side tables. Cellarer Bwat took me to the end of the long table just below the dais, where a wine bottle, a pitcher of water, a goblet, and two tumblers had been placed. On the floor stood a beer barrel with a spigot screwed into its side.

In an urgent, loud whisper, Cellarer Bwat said, “You will uncork the wine with a sharp twist of the wrist.” He demonstrated in the air, then gave me the bottle.

What tale should I perform?

I held the bottle in my left hand, the cork in my right, then twisted. Half the cork remained in the bottle.

Cellarer Bwat sighed and called in an even louder whisper for another bottle. “Pull while you twist.”

Should I recite the speech of a young siren, newly arrived on her rock, before she has lured her first mariner to his death? It was moving and right for my years.

Cellarer Bwat said, “You will pass the open bottle below the noses, first of His Highness, then of His Lordship, an inch below their noses, no closer, no farther, so they may smell the wine. Do not pass the bottle under the princess’s nose.”

“Why not, Cellarer Bwat?”

“Her upper lip will grow. Wine has that effect on ladies.”

The inner ward door opened. Cellarer Bwat fell to his knees with a crack that must have hurt. He tugged me into a curtsy.

“Stay down,” he hissed.

I raised my head to see who’d entered. Cellarer Bwat pushed it down. I had only a moment to take in a tall, paunchy man with shoulders pulled back, wearing a bright red cloak.

The voice was familiar, in a lower register than the one I knew, but just as prone to soaring and plummeting. The speaker could only be the king. “I had hardly awakened when the loveliest breakfast arrived at my door. Scalded milk with honey, neither too hot nor too cold.” His voice rose half an octave. “Perfect! Accompanied by two scones, and they were warm, too!”

A retelling of every morsel of his breakfast followed, while Cellarer Bwat and I knelt. From the corner of my eye, I saw the other servants kneeling, too. My neck cramped.

“Now I’m hoping it will be possible to secure a slice of ginger cake on this pretty dish.” Porcelain rattled. He’d opened His Lordship’s plate cabinet.

“Certainly, Your Highness.” A servant must have taken the plate.

Feet and ankles in leather-soled hose entered the area of floor I could see. “What are you two doing?”

“Bowing to you, Your Highness,” Cellarer Bwat whispered.

“Curtsying to you, Your Highness,” I whispered.

“Before I came in, of course. You may stand.”

We did. My eyes were drawn to the king’s cap, which was set with rubies and emeralds. He wore no crown, but the rubies formed a band, like a crown, with the emeralds dotting the top of his skull.

“I am training her to be a cupbearer. She will serve you and His Lordship and your daughter this evening.”

The king’s face reminded me of a pigeon’s: no chin, eyes as round as coins, and a down-turned mouth. He and his daughter both had long sloping noses and nothing else alike, lucky for her.

“I see. Excellent. A beginner.” Royal sarcasm. He mounted the dais and sat in the golden chair.

I noticed that his tunic, wine red and embroidered with gold thread at the throat, had an oily stain on the belly and caked food on the sleeve.

“You may teach her now. She will pour, and I will drink.”

Oh no! My fingers turned to ice.

Cellarer Bwat’s face reddened. “But Your Highness, she isn’t ready.”

“No matter. As I am the king, it will be extraordinarily good practice for her. First I should like a tumbler of water. Water goes best with ginger cake, although our southern Lepai water tastes sweetest. Beer is preferable with plain. . . .”

A servant entered with his cake. The servants who had remained kneeling rose gradually, as if prepared to lower themselves again instantly.

Cellarer Bwat and I carried the wine bottle and other preparations to the dais table. Then we circled around to stand beside the king. Two more servants struggled up with the beer barrel. Cellarer Bwat held my elbow and guided my hand as I poured water from pitcher into tumbler. Almost inaudibly, he whispered, “Pour slowly, gent—”

“I thought I was speaking. I thought I was king, and people were to listen when I spoke.”

“Beg pardon, Your Majesty.”

How could Cellarer Bwat tell me what to do without speaking?

“No harm done. White wine is best with aged rabbit, an infrequent treat. . . .”

With the king listing beverages and foods, and with Cellarer Bwat’s hand under my forearm, I held the tumbler out to His Highness.

He took it carelessly and splashed the front of his cloak. I heard a sharp intake of breath from Cellarer Bwat.

“How clumsy,” the king said.

A servant rushed to him with a cloth, but he waved her away.

“It will dry.” He raised the tumbler, drank, then spit into my face.





Chapter Nineteen

My mouth fell open, and water and spittle dripped into it. How dare he? “Your Highness—” My voice was indignant.

Cellarer Bwat’s foot came down hard on mine.

The foot reminded me that I had rarely mansioned a humble role. I made my voice silken. “Beg pardon, Your Majesty. I regret your—my—clumsiness.”

“I forgive you. There is a pink wine they make in . . .”

The king went on speaking and eating between sentences. I wiped my face on my sleeve. After he finished his cake, he called for a bowl of fruit.

Since Cellarer Bwat couldn’t use words to instruct me, he held my hands and arms in a viselike grip that barred mistakes. With a mansioner’s concentration, I noted every move: how high we filled a tumbler with beer, how high with water, how much wine went into a goblet after the wine had been pronounced drinkable.