A Tale of Two Castles

His Highness didn’t spit on me again, but he thrust out a leg and tripped one of the servants who was going off to fetch a fresh keg of beer. The servant apologized and was forgiven instantly.

I pondered whether the king liked the servant and me better for our humiliation, or liked us less, because he knew he had been at fault, really, each time.

The castle bells chimed noon. My mind drifted back to pieces I might perform. Perhaps a funny recitation would be best. I could tell an animal fable.

After the fruit had been devoured, the king raised the bowl, so a shaft of sunlight hit it. “Such excellent porcelain. See, girl, how the light glints through it?”

He was addressing me, and I didn’t dare tell him to call me Elodie. “I see, Your Highness.”

“I do not own such a fine piece. I wonder if his is all so good.”

Then he sent for a bowl of chicken gizzards. If Greedy Grenny kept eating until the guests arrived, I wouldn’t have a moment to rehearse. He licked his fingers after eating his gizzards. His fingers and lips shone with grease.

Suppose I recited the story of Princess Rosette, whose dog stole meat from the castle cook to prevent a wedding. The tale had three aspects of His Lordship’s danger: thievery, a dog, and a betrothal.

Greedy Grenny asked if the ogre kept any apple wine. A servant was dispatched. Meanwhile, the king began cracking walnuts, his latest craving. He had downed six tumblers of water, two of beer, and five half-filled goblets of wine. His insides must have been afloat, but he had given me a great deal of practice. Cellarer Bwat’s guiding hand on my arm had gradually lightened. I had learned to pour.

The apple wine arrived. With a flourish and without assistance, I uncorked the bottle and passed it under the king’s nose at precisely the correct distance. The king pronounced the wine excellent. “But it is not quite the flavor to accompany walnuts.” He frowned. “I must have dried cherries.”

I despaired of leaving the hall before the feast began. Humble, I told myself as an idea formed, feel humble. I curtsied so deeply that my trembling legs almost gave way. “Pardon me—”

Cellarer Bwat whispered a cry of dismay.

“How dare you address me? Insupportable!”

Prison for me. But I thought I knew him by now. I used my quaking legs and pitched over to the side and onto the floor, away from the table and his legs. “Oof!”

He laughed and went on laughing, while I tried to get up and made myself fall again.

“You may rise.”

I scrambled up, awkward on purpose.

“You have leave to speak.”

I told him I was to perform tonight and begged for time to practice. “I would hate to disgrace Lepai.”

He gave me leave to leave. Cellarer Bwat’s face was purple, I supposed because he would have to pour for the king now. I pitied him, but not enough to stay.

In the postern outer ward, a woman picked pears. I didn’t want an audience, so I sped toward the south side of the castle, hoping it would be deserted. As I rounded the corner, three grooms on horseback trotted my way, exercising their mounts. Next to me, wooden stairs climbed to the battlements. I could practice on high, where the wind would carry my voice away.

Sixty-nine steps brought me to the wall walk. I called, “Halloo! Is anyone here?”

No answer but the breeze in my ears. The sun was long past noon. Soon the arriving guests would end my chance to prepare.

For those who’ve never visited a castle, the inner curtain wall walk is wide enough for two tall men to lie across it head to toe. During a battle, soldiers are stationed here to shoot arrows at an approaching army and to drop boiling water and rocks on an army that’s arrived. The soldiers are protected from the enemy by the crenellated battlement, a wall that looks gap-toothed, like a jack-o’-lantern’s smile. The tooth is called the merlon, the gum the embrasure.

But with no battle and no soldiers, I had room to rehearse.

Master Jak hadn’t said how long my performance was to be. The tale of Princess Rosette could take half an hour. I couldn’t ready myself for half an hour’s performance in half an hour!

I strode down the western wall walk, skirting a chimney opening that belched gray smoke. Confine myself to five minutes. Start in the middle of the tale, since everyone knows the whole.

“The little dog”—I cleared my throat—“the little dog, pitying his . . .” No, I should begin at a more thrilling moment. I paced.

Yes! I had it. I climbed to the walk atop the northwest tower. From here I could see the harbor and imagine my voice crossing the strait to Albin and Mother and Father.

“At midnight”—deeper for a narrator’s fullness—“while the princess dreamed of her peacocks, the nurse whispered in the ear of the riverboat master.”

I paced, considering how to portray the moment when the princess would be thrown overboard.

Below, someone shouted. Hooves clattered on wood. I heard rumbling. The guest wagons must be approaching. I looked down and saw a horse-drawn cart rolling up the ramp to the drawbridge.

I had to protect His Lordship. But oh, I was going to make a fool of myself when I performed.

Six more carts wound up the road, followed by two oxen towing the purple mansion. I supposed the actors were within, the mansion needed only as a conveyance because the troupe would perform inside the castle. My heart rose at the gay sight of the pennants, rippling in the wind.

I started down the steps to the lower northern wall walk. What was that tawny heap on the walk below, snug against the inner gatehouse tower? A guard’s woolly cloak?

Whatever it was, it was none of my concern with the count to watch over.

The cloak moved.

I raced down the steps. The cloak thumped its tail.





Chapter Twenty