Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
Then the King came to Batstoke with his mighty host of Knights of the Round Table, and a great multitude of people marveled at his coming, and they lined the streets to call out to him in greeting and make gifts of flowers and fine goods.
All manner of townsfolk came to make presentations to him, to show him the way of life in Batstoke, and journeyed with him so he might witness the school of his devising, and leave the children there wiser than he found them.
—FROM AN EARLY DRAFT OF THE QUESTS OF KING GAbrIEL AND HIS ROUND TABLE BY SIR FLORIAN ARDEN
“So we’re just lying then,” Bridget said, handing the piece of parchment back to Gwen, who sighed.
The school visit had in fact been an unmitigated disaster.
Gabriel had treated the children like they were incendiary chamber pots primed to explode; when one of the rowdier boys had touched him, he’d flinched so hard he’d knocked over a brazier.
He had seemed too overwhelmed to talk to them about their education, which had been the whole point of going in the first place.
It might have been all right, except that their parents were there, and witness to him behaving like their spawn were king-eating rodents, which probably wasn’t doing much for public relations.
“They were just so loud,” he’d said as they walked out, looking as drained as if they’d tapped him for his sap. “Why were they so loud? Were they hungry?”
They had been hosted afterward in a dark, drafty hall by a local lord, Fentman, who couldn’t stop boasting about his holdings, the acreage increasing with every anecdote.
Now they were sitting in his slightly brighter stone-walled antechamber, enjoying a moment of privacy and reprieve as the hall on the other side of the door filled with townspeople in high feasting spirits. Gabriel was about to give his first public relations speech.
“It’s going to be good,” Gwen said, with the slightly hysterical determination of the completely doomed.
Her foot was jiggling against the leg of the table, making little thumping noises like the wings of a trapped bird against a roof, and Bridget reached out automatically and placed a hand on Gwen’s knee.
This had been okay at Yuletide, and when she’d been at Camelot in the spring. Was it okay now? Impossible to say. She certainly wouldn’t have thought about it this much, back then, but apparently everything she did now required overanalyzing to the point of pain.
Gwen’s foot paused for a moment; Bridget glanced up and saw that Gabriel was watching this interaction take place, and that sitting across from him, with his entire body angled deliberately away from the king, so was Arthur. Great. Great!
She removed the hand, and everybody looking at it immediately pretended they hadn’t been, and Gwen’s foot jiggling resumed business as usual.
A bored boy in velvet—probably one of the lord’s unenigmatic sons—cracked open the door. “They’re ready for you, Your Majesty.”
Gabriel didn’t swear, but he looked like he would have done if he had the saliva to spare. He nodded twice, then got up abruptly and walked toward the door; Bridget noticed that Arthur moved when he did, his shoulders twitching like he’d been planning to jump up too and walk at Gabriel’s heel.
The long hall was packed. People were so crammed in to the tables that the unlucky diners on the ends of the benches had one buttock floating free.
She mapped the exits—two doors by the high table, one large door down the other end, a funnel—checked for the guards at their stations, and didn’t find any comfort in it.
Everybody highborn or royal took their seats, so the other guests sat too, glancing down the tables to make sure they were following the cues—and then Gabriel immediately stood up again, so everybody else did too, a shuffling pantomime of etiquette.
“Um, hello,” he started, glancing down at his papers and then back up again at the crowd, who blinked at him warily. “Good evening. Thank you for coming.”
His audience was still muttering; there was a pronounced pause while he looked for the right piece of parchment, and a few people laughed. Bridget’s eyes darted around the room, looking for the offenders, the rest of her body perfectly still.
“It’s … it’s an honor for me to come and see the work you’re doing in places like … this.” Gwen was repressing a wince, Bridget was sure of it. “Visiting your school reminded me of the importance of … um, of what we’re … of education. Future generations who will be given the best chance to … er…”
He kept glancing up at his audience and then back at his notes.
The muttering grew louder. Bridget could see Arthur’s entire body tensing up, although the congenial smile on his face stayed in place.
She wondered what his instinct was here: to jump in, to take over?
Make a joke? What was it like for your natural inclination to be to smooth over a tense situation, instead of drawing a sword to put a violent end to it?
Next to her, Sir Leonard didn’t seem particularly concerned, but then, when did he ever? Crack open his pretty head, and you’d probably just hear upbeat hurdy-gurdy music.
Gabriel was wrapping up. Small mercies. “As I said, an honor. And soon we’ll feast, thanks to Lord Fentman. So … enjoy.”
There was scattered applause, a few raised voices in agreement, but it quickly lapsed back into an uneasy grumble that rolled around the room and back, like dark water sloshing in a tub.
Then Arthur stood, cup in hand. None of the audience need know it was full of juice.
“I hope you’ll all forgive me for being brief—it’s a long ride, the king’s road is full of cracks, and mine suffers dearly.
” Bottom humor. Inelegant, but people were laughing, which was an improvement.
“Thank you for being here. Obviously we’d all rather be at the Cup and Barrel—no offense meant to my Lord Fentman—but we’ve rolled so many casks of ale across the square to quench your thirsts tonight, it’ll smell just like home.
Especially once there’s some piss on the floor.
” People cheered at this, in delighted surprise.
“No, I jest of course, keep your piss to yourselves. And if you happen to see me in the Cup and Barrel later … keep that to yourselves too, all right? Cheers, to the king!”
Lord Fentman was struck speechless, but he raised his cup in a vague sort of way as the rest of the hall joined the toast. Clearly nobody had warned him the speech would be so centered around piss.
The mood had improved though, and Bridget’s nerves eased off enough to let her put both hands above the table, accepting a small cup of wine from a serving girl and drinking it slowly while food was served and Sir Leonard kept up a steady stream of “observations” about the room, a favorite pastime of his.
“The people here are shorter than average,” he said as he picked neatly at his pie. “Malnourished, perhaps, but I’ve always liked a short man. Pocket-size, you know?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” Sir Bowen said sharply, on his other side.
“I’m just saying, lack of milk makes them interesting. They grow in new directions, like plants looking for sun.”
“That’s a vile thing to say. You’re a protector of the realm. Stop twirling your hair, you look utterly vacant.”
Sir Leonard grinned at him, a happy blond shark. “Handsome and vacant only encourages prospective tenants.”
Bridget had learned to ignore them when they were like this.
She focused on the room instead, the volume of the crowd increasing as those many casks of ale rapidly depleted.
There was a gray-haired man sitting on the end of one of the benches who hadn’t touched food or ale, his hands in his lap, staring straight ahead.
Was he allergic to merriment, or did he have more sinister intentions?
By the door, a sullen-faced youth leaned against the jamb, talking in a low voice to the equally grim-faced boy at his side.
Romantic disappointment? Toothache? Royal murder in his heart?
All plausible, except for the fact that he was glaring right at Bridget.
She was so focused on these potential assailants that she didn’t notice the man who was actually approaching Gwen until he was too close for comfort.
“Whoa there, Llamrei,” Sir Leonard said, his hand shooting out to keep Bridget in her seat. “It’s not a crime to talk to the princess. Calm thoughts. Happy Bridget.”
Bridget was not happy. The ruddy-faced man was saying something to Gwen, frowning and earnest. The guards were watching intently, but hadn’t moved.
Bridget put down her wine. “I’m just going—”
“Happy, happy Bridget,” Sir Leonard said, in a singsong voice. “Think of something soothing. Imagine you’re picking up big rocks and putting them down again, you love to do that. Don’t you feel better already?”
Gwen didn’t look too concerned, beyond the general discomfort of speaking to a man who was absolutely, mistakenly sure that he was saying something interesting.
There was a shout from somebody on the benches, and Bridget glanced over, identified it as drunken tomfoolery, then looked back to Gwen—and found that the man had moved forward and was currently leaning across the table, his hand aiming for the princess’s shoulder.
Perhaps Sir Leonard tried to stop her; Bridget couldn’t have known. She was so focused on her destination that it felt to her as if she simply appeared there, her sword drawn, her body a wall between Gwen and the man who’d tried to touch her. The edges of her vision swam, but she did not waver.
“Hey,” said the man, his face reddening deeper. Bridget was holding on to his arm. Too tightly, perhaps, but that was up to interpretation.
“Leclair,” she heard Arthur hiss behind her, genuine alarm in his tone.
The blood rushing in her ears quieted enough for her to hear that the mood in the room had turned like a sore stomach. Shit.