Chapter 5
Once Francis had said farewell to his friends, Gustav and the bearded fellow in green showed him to the lavish rooms he’d be staying in and offered him a change of clothes.
Since Francis was soaked through with rose water, he accepted the offer.
Behind an ornate screen, he undressed himself. Attendants had appeared to offer assistance, but Francis told Gustav to ask them to leave. He needed a moment to himself. There were various sets of clothes, Turkish in style, already laid out on a cushioned day bed, so Francis dressed himself.
He spoke to Gustav who was on the other side of the screen when he needed to double check anything, but these clothes appeared blissfully simple and far less fussy than what Francis was used to.
He pulled on the customary wide legged trousers, slipping his feet through the ends, and buttoning up the waist. There was a choice of long or short sleeve shirts, more like a tunic in style, that buttoned up at the neck.
A long sleeve would be wiser, he thought.
Francis chose neutral colours, as he had his eye on the pretty, patterned waistcoats in burgundy, gold, and blue. Selecting one of those and slipping it over his shoulders was the best part.
“Should I wear a hat? I mean, turban? Are they hats?” Francis asked.
Gustav’s silhouette was still in place, but he was bobbing from foot to foot nervously.
“I believe it is your choice, sir, as a foreigner,” he replied. “Since we are indoors and about to eat, I would say you could go without.”
“Oh, I don’t mind wearing one,” Francis said, and picked up a small, round red hat to try. “And the shoes? Do I wear stockings or not? I noticed everyone seems to go without here.”
“Without stockings, sir,” Gustav advised. “You would become hot.”
“Yes, these clothes are much airier,” Francis agreed. He found a pair of white and gold slippers in his size. They were easy enough to slip on, and for a moment Francis admired the turned-up toes. He felt rather special indeed in such fine clothing.
“I believe I am ready,” he declared, walking around the screen to let Gustav appraise him.
The older man nodded, looking Francis up and down. “May I make a suggestion, sir? A sash is worn as a belt. It does help hold the trousers up.”
“Oh, yes, all right,” Francis said. He allowed Gustav to pick out a red sash and help wrap it around his waist just so.
“A splash of colour, too,” Gustav said.
“Yes,” Francis agreed, and almost chuckled. “I didn’t know you appreciated fashions this much, Gustav.”
Gustav appeared flustered. “They do appeal, sir. Now, shall we to dinner?”
“Yes,” Francis agreed. He was feeling better now. Good clothes always helped with that. “Let’s go.”
They found their bearded, friendly fellow in green again, and he assigned them a younger attendant to escort them to dinner.
Despite the nerves, Francis was looking forward to finally meeting King Omar.
As they walked down the beautiful hallway, Gustav talking quickly about what food to expect for dinner and how best to eat it, Francis paid more attention to the decor, and the other people they passed.
The palace was bustling with guests, and it seemed Francis wasn’t the last to arrive.
His head was turned by the arrival of a very attractive East Asian man wearing beautiful silk robes with billowing sleeves.
His shoulder length black hair fixed half loose and half tied up with gold adornments.
Maybe a prince?
Francis wanted to ask Gustav, but there was no time. They passed by the new arrivals just as the maybe-prince raised his hands in confusion at his entourage, like he was expecting more of a welcome party.
As he walked away from the scene, Francis had to wonder if this was all a tactic to put the guests off their game. To shake things up and see how they handled being in a new situation, with new customs.
He refused to believe it was merely an organisational oversight; it had to be deliberate. With this now in mind, Francis took a deep breath, stood tall, and braced himself for dinner.
They were shown to a room so grand that Francis could only assume it was a throne room or ballroom, maybe both.
While the room itself was square, the ceiling was made of several domes and arches all finished in red, gold and azure-blue tile so that the whole canopy glittered.
A crystal chandelier dangled down from the centre dome, lit up but not with flickering candlelight, a constant light Francis had never seen before.
And thanks to that chandelier, the room was brightly lit.
As they entered with the other guests, Francis spotted what he first assumed was a day bed or chaise to the right, decorated with a golden canopy. Perhaps the king sat there. Currently it was vacant, with nobody sitting on its blue silk cushion.
On the right of that chair was a gallery of sorts, raised slightly on a platform and with ornate blue pillars at regular intervals, setting it apart from the main room.
A pretty paper screen had been set between each pillar, and Francis wished Christian could see the art on it; a talented artist had drawn a motif of peacocks and ferns.
Lit from behind, the artistic screen was a marvel to behold.
Gustav noticed Francis looking, and said quietly, “The king’s family have that area to themselves. As well as the balcony.”
Francis glanced up, noting for the first time that there was indeed a gold railed balcony above the gallery.
It was almost imperceptible in the ornate decor, but now it had been pointed out, he could see it.
At that very moment, two small figures, possibly young girls, ran along the length of the balcony, giggling in delight, their dark heads of hair barely visible above the protective rail.
Francis saw a young woman bustling after them, maybe a nurse or older sibling giving chase; and then they were gone.
Intriguing.
But sadly, there was no time to stand around admiring the place nor looking for clues.
More guests were spilling into the hall behind them, and they had to move along.
Everyone’s destination: a long, low table set in the centre of the room, already set for dining and full to the brim of exotic foods and drink.
Except, Francis noted, there were no chairs, only plump cushions on the floor.
“Gustav, there’s no chairs?” Francis said.
He watched some of the guests bustling up to the head of the table in front of the empty throne.
Some of them paused, clearly thrown by the lack of chairs, and others hurriedly sat upon the cushions claiming the best spots to presumably be closer to the king.
“Yes, we sit down cross legged or however is comfortable, sir,” Gustav explained.
“We’d better hurry, then,” Francis said. He found the nearest spot and lowered himself to a cushion. Gustav sat on his left so he didn’t block Francis’s view of the throne, nor the king’s view of Francis.
Francis was hungry, and everything in front of him smelled delicious.
Servants in robes of green and yellow filed in, depositing more full trays of food to the table. Some of the guests had started eating already, apparently ravenous.
Francis was too shocked to do anything but stare. He didn’t mind the informality itself, he was just taken by surprise. Wasn’t it rude to not wait for the king? Without direction, he floundered.
As someone sat opposite him, Francis looked at the guest and realised it was Augie Wittensbach.
Oh, no.
Wittensbach spotted him too, and grinned. “Your royal highness,” he said meanly.
Francis smiled back at him. “Your grace.”
Table politics, Francis could manage well enough.
Thankfully, music piped up, providing a good enough distraction from less than savoury dinner companions. Servants brought trays filled with tiny glass cups of tea, and Francis indulged. He rather liked the sweet tea.
“Shall I make you a plate, sir?” Gustav asked.
“No, it’s all right,” Francis replied. “You eat, Gustav. I’ll dive in and experiment. When in Rome, eh?”
Gustav seemed surprised for a moment, then smiled. “Very well, sir. If I may suggest trying the skewered kebabs? They are very good.”
“Thank you, I will,” Francis said, reaching for the plate. Wittensbach reached for it at the same time and snatched the kebab stick Francis had intended to grab.
“Aren’t you worried, little prince?” Wittensbach grinned, brandishing his skewer like a weapon before depositing it on his plate.
“Worried about what? That you’ll take all the food?” Francis quipped.
Wittensbach snorted. “Worried you’re a tad too old to be here,” he said, staring Francis down as he pulled his kebab to bits and shoved a cube of in his mouth. “You know this is a physical tournament?” he said, talking with his mouth full. “Hardly your strong suit.”
Gustav stiffened beside Francis, ready to defend him. Francis subtly put a hand on Gustav’s arm to signal he had this.
“Lucky it isn’t a tournament of manners, your grace,” Francis shot back. “Or they wouldn’t let you in the front door.”
The man beside Wittensbach laughed, then tried to stifle it with a slice of pitta bread. Wittensbach glowered, furious, but he had no comeback.
He’d always been mean, but not so quick.
Francis smiled and sipped his tea.
“Bravo, sir,” Gustav whispered. He leaned in and picked up the plate with the kebabs, dropping two onto Francis’s plate, and two onto his. He set the empty plate back onto the table firmly.
Wittensbach pushed his plate away and looked for something else to eat. “Tastes like mutton anyway.”
Francis hoped the entire meal wasn’t going to be like this. When he glanced left, he saw Haugwitz, who was often meaner than Wittensbach but slightly more polite about it. To his right, at the head of the table, he spotted Montferrat and that newcomer prince with the long hair.
“Gustav, who is that gentleman?” Francis asked quietly.
“Oh, that could be Prince Hiro, of Japan. And the gentleman sitting opposite, cousin to the Maharaja of India.”
“They seem to be in a disagreement,” Francis replied, watching the two men arguing over who sat where. “How did they all get so far up that end?” he wondered aloud. And how did he end up getting stuck with the other German speakers?
“What?” Wittensbach said loudly, as his aide beside him cowered slightly. “What are you talking about? Harem?”
“We are in the Harem, sir,” the aide explained.
“But we’re having dinner!” Wittensbach declared. “I thought a Harem was for sex?”
Gustav nearly choked on his tea.
“No, sir,” the aide explained. “The royal Harem is, simply put, the designated section of the palace reserved for women. Traditionally for the king’s wives, daughters, and, er, for the concubines.”
Wittensbach pulled a face and looked around at the servants. “Which ones are the concubines? I thought they’d be dressed like sexy belly dancers.”
Francis tutted under his breath. It would not do to be seen in Wittensbach’s poor company. Francis made a mental note to keep as far away from him as possible for the rest of this visit.
Thankfully, a new procession into the room distracted everyone enough to still conversation. With a short fanfare of trumpets, the guests all struggled up from the cushions in order to bow for the arrival of the king.
At last.
Except, Francis couldn’t see much with everyone in his way. He saw the top of the procession: golden spears held by guards, holding up curtains of deep azure-blue between them and creating a mobile canopy.
Was the king…inside there?
Everyone began murmuring, and by the time they all sat down again, and Francis could see the throne dais…or, rather, not see anything except a screen of blue material, he realised that King Omar was hidden from view entirely.
Ingenious, Francis thought to himself. How he’d always wished to have a barrier between him and other people at social functions.
But, also, a little disappointing that he couldn’t see the man himself. How was he to win the good graces of a man he couldn’t see?
The other guests were also perturbed by this strange entrance, murmuring among themselves as the music struck up to play, and the food and wine continued to come.
A diminutive herald came down from the dais and read a welcome speech aloud in several different languages one by one.
Francis had to wait a while for the German version.
King Omar welcomed them to dinner, apparently, and bid them rest tonight for an early rise to the start of the tournament tomorrow.
Francis was thrilled to hear the evening wouldn’t last too long. He would look forward to going to bed by himself and having some peace and quiet. He was already dreading the morning and more socialising ahead.
Briefly he wondered how his friends were faring but knew they would be fine. They didn’t hate social engagements the way he did.
As he ate his meal, Francis gazed idly around the room, noticing for the first time on the gallery’s screen that the peacock motif served a function beyond being purely decorative. Some of the eyes in the peacock’s feathered tails blinked occasionally.
It took Francis a moment to realise that there were people behind the screen watching them, peering through peepholes carefully placed in the motif, their guests none the wiser.
Clever, Francis thought.
He wondered who was behind there. The king’s family? Or his concubines?
Francis hadn’t been aware King Omar had concubines. He had half a mind to ask Gustav about it, but the older man was busy stifling a yawn.
His questions could wait. For now, he would observe.