A Tale of Two Castles

The guests and their children numbered sixty-eight, and I saw twine jewelry on twenty-four of the adults. I counted eighteen cats, but more may have been out of sight under the table.

The princess alone seemed in a festive mood. The hall was chilly, too vast to be warmed even by the three roaring fires, yet she threw off her cloak, revealing a scarlet kirtle. She talked ceaselessly, emphasizing ideas with grand gestures. Little food passed between her lips, but she shared tidbits from her bowl with everyone on the dais, sending her jeweled knife from hand to hand to the ends of the table.

Her father proffered treats to his neighbors, but he scowled when his morsels were accepted, and everyone soon learned to decline his offerings.

The count’s manners seemed perfect to this farm bumpkin. He shared generously and accepted tidbits with good grace. I observed that he and Sir Misyur curled their fingers around their spoons in exactly the same fashion. The steward had taught his master well.

Except for Her Highness, such a quiet feast this was! Even the children behaved with decorum.

Courses surged out of the kitchen. I had eaten nothing since dawn and was hungry when the meal began, but the glut of food exhausted my stomach through my eyes.

Or worry replaced appetite: worry for His Lordship, worry over my approaching performance.

According to Albin, at a banquet every round of three courses, called a remove, was followed by an entertainment. According to Master Jak, my turn would come at the end of the second remove. After the first a minstrel sang, accompanying herself on the lute. I guessed her to be one of Master Sulow’s mansioners. She warbled in a voice as soft as chamois, and even the princess quieted to hear.

The song began with a knight setting forth,


To fight the giant whose shadow

Blotted out the shining sun.



Giant, she sang, but I suspected she meant ogre. From my vantage point behind and to the side, I saw His Lordship’s cheeks become mottled red and white. Princess Renn’s hand patted his shoulder, but I doubted he was aware of her.

The knight killed seven giants in as many verses. This was the refrain:


Be the giant tall as the sky

With teeth sharp as spikes,

Eyes piercing as pikes,

And fists like hammers.

May he roar and thunder,

Yet he will die.



When she finished, the applause, muted at first, gained strength. The guests at the lower table rose to show their appreciation—and their dislike, perhaps hatred, of their host. I was astonished at their boldness.

Goodman Twah and Goodwife Celeste both clapped enthusiastically, although they lived elsewhere. What reason did they have to despise His Lordship?

He clapped without enthusiasm, ignoring the insult. The minstrel curtsied and ran into the inner ward.

Princess Renn raised a bit of bread to Count Jonty Um’s lips. “I like songs better when no one is slain.”

He chewed, his face still blotchy red.

Master Sulow had certainly chosen the ballad. Why?

Three menservants emerged from behind the kitchen screen carrying the feast masterpiece: a roasted peacock. I

had heard of this delicacy but never seen it, and wished I weren’t seeing it now. It would have looked like any other cooked bird—if it hadn’t still had its beak, and if its beautiful plumage hadn’t been stabbed, feather by feather, into its crispy back.

“Jonty Um,” Greedy Grenny said, “twenty-five dishes thus far, four with saffron.”

“I hope Your Majesty enjoyed them,” His Lordship said.

“Yes, certainly. The point is, I served only three saffron dishes when the king of Belj visited.”

“Fie, Father!” The princess laughed. “Mayn’t Jonty Um be more generous than you are?”

Greedy Grenny laughed, too. “He may. I prefer saffron in my belly to saffron in the belly of the king of Belj.” He wiped his hands and his face on the tablecloth and stood.

The guests quieted. Servants paused in their serving.

“Loyal subjects, tonight is more than a feast of friends. Tonight will be remembered forever in the history of Lepai. My daughter—”

“La!” The princess tossed her head. Below her cap, her yellow hair flew about.

“Princess Renn has confessed to me her affection for my subject Jonty Um, the wealthiest man, er, the wealthiest being in Lepai, after the crown.”

If silence could hush, this silence did, as though the world’s winds had stilled and all creatures ceased moving.

“Even a king cannot ignore the feelings of his only child.”

But she’d told me he arranged the betrothal. What a liar he was!

“I have approved their union. Dear subjects, think how safe Lepai will be with His Lordship defending us. Think how strong we will be with His Lordship leading our attacks. My daughter and His Lordship will wed, and, in due time”—he chuckled—“but not very soon, I hope, Count Jonty Um will succeed to the throne.”

Princess Renn threw her arms around the king’s neck and kissed his cheek. He looked pleased with himself. Why not? A happy daughter and greater riches.

I discovered I was happy, too. This ogre would be a better ruler than either the king or his daughter. King Grenville had no kindness and the princess was too flighty. Count Jonty Um’s character combined steadiness and compassion.

She spun in her chair to her betrothed. Rising halfway, she kissed him on his cheek. “La! It is lucky you are tall.”

His arm went around her. It was an awkward gesture, but his smile was certainly glad.

Mmm . . . I thought, wishing I could tell if he loved her. I liked the princess and didn’t want her in a marriage without affection. Whatever he felt, however, he would be good to her. Perhaps that was enough.

Sir Misyur cried, “Hurrah!”

The cheer was taken up with gusto by the servants, listlessly by the guests. When the voices died away, Sir Misyur said, “My lord, tell them the sort of king you’ll be!”

Count Jonty Um stood.

He should have remained seated, I thought. His shadow crossed the dais and darkened a few feet of the lower guest table.