A Tale of Two Castles

The dog’s back legs were hobbled. The chain around his neck had been tied to a rope, which had then been looped over the finial, a spike atop the merlon. A bowl of water lay near his head. I crouched by him and held out my hand, which he licked. He struggled to stand but toppled, though his tail continued to wag, slapping the ground so enthusiastically it lifted his entire rear.

“Nesspa?” With my purse knife I cut the cloth that hobbled him and lifted the rope off the merlon.

His golden coat was knotted here and there. I had to brush away his eyebrow hair to see an eye, which turned reproachfully up at me. Can’t you tell I’m drinking?

When he finished, he stood, legs trembling until he found his balance. His back was almost as high as my waist.

“Come!” The dog trotted ahead of me without tugging. What a smart beast!

I shouted, “Your Lordship,” although no one could hear me up here. We started down. Halfway, he must have sniffed his master, because he began to pull. I held on, barely succeeding in staying on my feet.

The gatehouse tower stairs took us down to the passage that led to the outer ward. This was the castle’s main entrance, wide enough to admit four horsemen abreast. As I ran, I saw rose petals beneath my feet.

Ahead, their backs to me, a knot of people and the count blocked the passage.

Nesspa was pulling hard enough to yank my arm from my body. “Your Lordship!” I cried, and let the rope go.

The dog cleared a path through the crowd. I followed more slowly.

“Oh! La!”

“Nesspa!” The count let go the chain of his substitute dog—Sheeyen again—and crouched.

Nesspa leaped up, again and again, to lick the ogre’s face.

“Nesspie, where were you? Are you hurt?” The count’s big hands felt the dog all over.

Sheeyen sniffed Nesspa’s rear quarter.

“Who found you?” He looked up, saw me, and beamed his rare, sweet smile.

A man took Sheeyen’s chain and tugged her away.

Might the return of Nesspa, His Lordship’s protector, thwart the plans of someone here or someone arriving?

Princess Renn leaned over to pat Nesspa’s head and placed her free hand on the count’s sleeve. For the feast she wore an orange cloak trimmed with royal ermine and an orange cap. “Ehlodie, where did you find him?”

Was she angry at me? She had wanted to find Nesspa and have His Lordship’s gratitude.

To let her know I hadn’t tried to outdo her, I said, “I wasn’t searching. I was on the wall walk, practicing for the entertainment. He was tied there.”

She didn’t appear angry. “You are lucky. Jonty Um, isn’t she lucky?”

“I’m lucky.” He frowned, while continuing to pat Nesspa. “We searched the wall walk.”

I wondered if he himself had searched or his servants had. I looked away from the reunion. My masteress would want me to see everything. Behind the princess, a woman hovered, a woman in middle age, tall but not so tall as Her Highness, the woman’s cloak simple but falling in the loose folds of fine wool. The princess’s maid, I decided.

A princess’s maid could go unchallenged wherever she liked. She might have stolen Nesspa.

Count Jonty Um stood. “Misyur . . .” He beamed down at the man holding Sheeyen. “He’s unhurt.”

“I’m glad, Your Lordship.”

Was this a friend of the count’s? I scrutinized the gentleman: wide forehead, uplifted eyebrows, soft chin, swarthy skin. Warm smile, but that might mean nothing. Prosperous in a blue silk cap.

“Sir Misyur,” Princess Renn said, “might we add something to the feast to celebrate?”

Ah. Sir. This was His Lordship’s steward. A count’s steward would be noble, a knight or better.

His friendly smile widened. “What do you think, Your Highness?”

“A frumenty with flerr sauce. Jonty Um and I love it so. My father as well.”

A frumenty was an ordinary custard, but flerr berries grew only on high mountain bushes that rarely flowered. Their taste was said to be sweeter than honey, more mellow than hazelnut, and more perfumed than muskmelon.

Sir Misyur’s smile faltered. “The kitchen will do its best.” He led Sheeyen across the inner ward in the direction of the stable.

I heard hoofbeats from the outer ward.

“La! Jonty Um, your guests have arrived.”

“Nesspa, come.”

I followed His Lordship and the princess through the passage. We broke back into sunlight as the first wagon driver reined in his horses. Grooms took the bridles, and servants helped the guests step down.

A few people held squirming cats. I counted ten guests and three cats. I observed His Lordship for a frown at the cats, but his face had lapsed into blankness.

A second cart drew in. First to jump down was Goodwife Celeste’s husband, Goodman Twah. With his assistance, she descended.

I positioned myself behind a groom. I’d thought them too poor and not distinguished enough to be invited, but if they were indeed poor, today their cloaks were not—marten fur fringing the collars of both, and Goodwife Celeste’s was embroidered with green thread in a pattern of leaping cats. What did she mean by wearing a cat design?

She raised an arm to adjust her cap. Her fashionably long kirtle sleeve fell away, revealing a silver armband, and with it, her bracelet of twine.

A third cart rumbled across the drawbridge.

“La! Here’s Thiel!” The princess left Count Jonty Um’s side.

How could he be arriving, when he’d spent the night here? And how could he be a guest? Yet there he was, holding his cat Pardine as one might cradle a baby. The cat was decked out in a twine collar.

As usual, I blushed at the sight of him.

Gallantly, he let everyone descend ahead of him, seven men and women, three young children, and four cats. Two of the men stood as tall as he. Both were fleshier and older, but their eyes were gray, too, and their jaws strong despite plump jowls. Cousins? Brothers? Neither appeared wealthy, but their cloaks were respectable. By contrast, Master Thiel wore his usual threadbare tunic and no cloak. When he jumped from the cart, I saw he wore shoes today, poverty shoes, with a drawstring at the top, like mine.

Blushing, too, Princess Renn pranced to him. “Thiel! Such news we have! Jonty Um’s dog has been found. Joy!”