The Bitterbynde Trilogy (75 page)

‘I—ah, it is wonderful,' offered Rohain weakly, bedazzled.

The laugh carilloned.

‘Wonderful, is it? Wonderful, she says, did you hear it? Marry, but she
does
have a word to say for herself after all. Such charming wit—can you believe it, Lord Jasper? I suppose you know far more about Seaships than we poor land-lovers, you coming from the Sorrow Isles. I am given to understand that those unfortunate lands are so named due to the number of shipwrecks which have occurred on their rocky shores, am I not correct? Is it true that the shipwrecked mariners are welcomed into the arms of the ladies of the Sorrows?'

As if this beauty had said something infinitely scintillating, her section of the table burst into loud guffaws, the antithesis of the restraint practiced in the Tower. Tear-eyed with mirth, Dianella added, ‘Do you like sailing, Lady Rohain?' which provoked a further outburst of merriment.

Rohain burned. ‘I know nothing of sailing,' she said.

‘La! Of course not, Dear Heart, your time would be devoted to much feater accomplishments, naturally! Do you sing?'

‘No.'

‘Perhaps the Lady Rohain plays a musical instrument,' put in a lady with fake seashells and ropes of pearls bedizening her horned headdress, her hair having been drawn through the hollow horns and falling in waves from the extreme ends.

‘No, I do not play.'

‘Do you then dance? One would suppose that you dance blissingly! We should like to see it,' said the one referred to as Calprisia, taking her cue. Her dainty face was framed by a steeple headdress delicately painted with black lacework, from which trailed a starry veil.

‘I am sorry to disappoint you—'

‘Oh come! Do not be so modest! Hide not your talents—we only wish to encourage, in good sooth,' said False Scallops.

‘I can only applaud the talents of others.'

‘La! What must they do with their spare time in the Isles!' Dianella exclaimed. ‘One can scarcely begin to imagine!'

‘And do they all wear their hair like yours?' asked Calprisia. ‘'Tis a most intriguing style, so simple yet so … ah—'

‘Simple!' said Dianella innocently, and to the amusement of her friends.

Rohain sensed credibility slipping like sand from her grasp. How should she respond—should she meet affront with austere civility? Exhibit disdain or try to match them at their game?

‘Of course you likely find us complete scoundrels, here at Court,' added Dianella. ‘No doubt you think us utter reprobates! What brings a polished lady like Rohain Tarrenys to our midst?'

‘My business is with the Duke of Roxburgh.'

That set her tormentress back, but the respite was only temporary.

Turning to the lord beside her, Dianella said, ‘Athal selevader chooseth sarva taraiz blurose.'

‘Fie! Aura donna believeth sa mid-uncouthants es,' he replied, laughing.

‘You must know I do not understand your slingua,' said Rohain, flustered. ‘Why then do you speak it in front of me?'

She knew at once that she had erred again. Dianella's smile dropped from her face like a mask. She arched her eyebrows in a look of exaggerated surprise.

‘Marry, because we are not
speaking
to you, that is why! La! Is the lady endeavouring to eavesdrop on our conversations? How churlish! Selevader taketh baelificence, Lord Percival.'

‘Dianella, really …' The droop-eyed lord protested halfheartedly.

‘Pash com grape-melt es—sildrillion et gloriana. May aftermath sault-thou, et storfen-thou!' responded the other tartly. The rest went off into hoots of laughter. Lord Percival sulked throughout the remainder of the meal. Rohain sat drowning in misery.

‘The Roast Beef!' roared the Master of the Dining Hall. The third course arrived. The Carver, a comely man with his knives in hand, walked into the Hall followed by the Taster, the Assayers, the Cup-Bearer, the Head Butler, and the Head Panter, all flanked by torch-bearers. For the diversion of the company, he carved the meat in front of them, performing with the dexterity and flair of a juggler. He divided the beast into sections and speared entire joints on the carving fork, before lifting them into the air and shaving pieces off with a keen knife. Thin slices of meat fell to the trenchers in organised patterns, slightly overlapping. Swiftly, he used the knifepoint to place final touches to the arrangement. Salt was sprinkled over the dish before it was presented to the potential consumers. The courtiers served themselves from chased oval chafing-dishes of vegetables, side dishes and pates up and down the tables, and boats of thick sauces and gravies. Some allowed themselves a sprinkle from the personal nutmeg-graters they carried at their belts; small silver boxes with a steel rasping-surface and a hinged lid at the top and bottom.

Through the croon and purr of shallow conversation pricked by the tinkle of crystal and artificial laughter, a far-off, eldritch howling sent sudden shivers through the assembly. Then a deeper note growled, so deep that it was felt, not heard. The bass vibration rumbled up through their feet and set the wine to rippling in the goblets. The small table-dogs about the floor began to yap. The pet cats bristled. As exclamations of astonishment flew like angry wasps around the tables, the tall windows snapped alight with a white blaze. Cries of alarm pierced the air, followed by laughter.

‘'Tis only the beginnings of a natural storm,' the courtiers reassured one another. ‘I heard the cry of the Howlaa.'

But what a storm.

It was as though some great pent-up anger had been unleashed, which threatened to pound the city to rubble and shake the palace to its very roots. The wind sang in a multitude of voices, like the keening of women lamenting lost lovers and the deep groaning of old men in pain, like the yowling of wolves baying at the moon and shrill pipes whistling in the chimneys, or the boom of some monstrous creature of the deep oceans. The banners and standards atop the palace had to be hastily lowered, for fear that they would be ripped to tatters. Slates tumbled from the roofs, smashing in the courtyards below. The trees in the gardens bent low, moaning. Their boughs whipped and cracked. Sudden whirls of leaves gusted by.

In the Royal Dining Hall, servants covered the light-stabbed windowpanes with heavy draperies, but no fabric seemed thick enough to banish those incandescent flashes. Bolts came hurtling out of the sky, one after another. The trio of musicians increased its volume, trying to be heard over the rain, the wind, and the thunder.

A fire-eater and a stilt-walker endeavoured to attract attention. A juggler performed amazing feats with plates and balls and sticks and flaming brands to while away the next entremet. He was largely ignored, except when he dropped something on his foot and hopped about clutching it, squawking. The Court thought it the best part of the act and applauded.

The fourth course, a pair of swans, was brought into the Hall on a silver dish by two comely young serving-girls in plumed costumes. The birds had been flayed carefully so as to leave their feathered skins intact, then stuffed and roasted before their feathers were sewn back on, their heads replaced complete with jeweled collars, and their feet gilded.

Visualizing the swan-girl at the cottage of Maeve One-Eye, Rohain recoiled in horror, then tried to disguise her reaction, dabbing at her mouth with a tiny kerchief presented by her lady's maid.
But wights cannot be slain
, she recalled with a rush of relief.

The counterfeit swanmaidens presented their dish to the elderly marquess and it was then expertly divided up into modest morsels by the Carver.

During the dispatching of the swans, Dianella and her friends conversed with each other almost exclusively in slingua. Their eyes frequently flicked over the stranger among them. Sometimes they giggled behind their hands. Rohain toyed with her food, pretending to eat, sick to her stomach. She could think of nothing to say and only wished to leave the Hall and retire to the solitude of her suite.

Out beyond the dominite walls, thunder rolled its iron ball along the metal tunnel of the sky. Wind laid both hands on the palace roof and tried to wrench it off.

In readiness for dessert, the last layer of the sanap was removed to reveal the chaste tablecloth. Now the ladies of the heart of the Set, bored with each other, flung an occasional retort at the shrinking violet in the midst of their convivial bouquet—sweet words, sharp-edged and biting, liqueur laced with poison, swords beneath silk. Airily, they tossed her dignity from one barb to another, until it hung in shreds.

Lucent jellies, glossy syrups, smooth creams and blancmanges, cinnamon curds, glazed pastries, and fruit tartlets followed the last entremet. Rohain pictured the oleaginous scenes necessarily taking place in the sinks of the palace sculleries.

‘When are we permitted to depart?' she murmured to her handmaiden. She felt nauseous, but not due to fancy's images.

‘Not until my lord the Marquess of Early has left the table.'

‘I hope he lives up to his name.'

‘Won't you tell us what you are whispering about with your maid?' entreated False Scallops, the Lady Elmaretta.

‘Yea, prithee, tell us!' chorused others, eagerly, eyes shining as they scented a further delicious opportunity to savor somebody's discomfiture and win one another's approval.

‘Naught of importance.'

‘Oh, how provoking!' they cried in tones of astonishment.

‘Fie!' Elmaretta wagged a gilt-nailed, admonitory finger. ‘You must out with it. No whispering at table!'

‘And besides, Dear Heart, everything you say is of importance to your friends!' added Dianella sweetly.

‘Well,' said Rohain boldly, ‘I was merely telling Viviana what the fox said to the ravening hounds.'

‘Oh? And what was that, pray?'

‘When you have devoured me, let the weakest among you look over his shoulder.'

The ladies exchanged glances.

‘Is that intended for a joke?' queried Calprisia. ‘Marry, 'tis not very amusing.'

‘No, it is not amusing,' her friends agreed. ‘What a very odd thing to say!'

‘Are you sure you've not partaken of too much wine, Dear Heart?' said Dianella.‘Or maybe not enough! Look, she's scarcely touched a drop. Butler! Fill up my lady Rohain!'

Several people laughed bawdily.

Rohain held her temper in check. To lose it would be the final humiliation. Having scored, Dianella appeared to lose interest and turned away.

After distending his bloated belly a little farther by way of the inclusion of frumenty, the gouty old Marquess of Early was helped to his feet and made his exit with ceremony. Dinner, mercifully, was over.

Outside, the storm raged on.

The wattle-gold rooms were a haven.

‘The lords had not such viperish tongues as the ladies,' muttered Rohain wearily. ‘Not one of them said a word to degrade me.'

‘The lords have their own reasons for courtesy, my lady.'

Rohain climbed the steps of the bed and sank into the feather-stuffed mattress.

In a small voice, Viviana said, ‘Your Ladyship ate very little. To be of modest appetite is considered chic.'

‘You are kind,' returned Rohain, ‘and supported me as best you could against overwhelming odds. But I know how it is. I have failed. I shall never be included now. I am Out before ever I set foot Within.'

It seemed a terrible disgrace, as though the world's weight had been set on her shoulders.

Having helped her mistress to bed, Viviana went to dine on the leavings, with the other maids of the lower ranks.

A pair of inhuman eyes, red coals piercing the gloom of a drain.

A stench of rotting matter and feces, stifling. A skittering and a chittering and a squeaking in the shadows, which were alive, running, slithering clumps and humps, black shapes climbing over one another and surging forward in a terrible, living tide. They were everywhere, in increasing numbers—under the bed, in the folds of the curtains and the canopy, falling with soft, heavy plops from the damask pelmet and the frilled valance like malignant raindrops, jammed, wriggling in corners, swarming up the elegant brass legs of the firescreen, smothering the matching firedogs, crawling up the gold-inlaid piers of the lacquered table, upsetting the bowl of oranges upheld on its silver pedestal by four winged babies.

They were rats, and they squeaked.

Their stealthy, filthy claws scratched and scratched. As they drew near, she saw that they wore the spiteful faces of courtiers. Soon they would come running up, in long black streams, up the steps of the bed and across the embroidered eiderdown, along her arms to her face. Then they would cover her with their warm, stinking bodies and begin, with those needle fangs, to gouge, to gnaw, burrowing through the newly emptied eye sockets into the brain, until her flesh was devoured and blood gouted all over the silken pillows and ran down to pool on the meadowy carpets and all that remained was a sightless, staring skull.

Screaming, Rohain woke up.

Pale, pearly light suffused the windows. The pillars of the wattle-tree bed grew protectively all around. Her eyes roved the chamber. The fruits in the dish were not oranges but pears, onyx pomegranates, pastel-dyed marzipan plums, enameled porcelain apples, amethyst grapes.

Of rodents, there was no sign. Her hand brushed her forehead. Her breath came and went in shallow gasps, her skin felt damp with perspiration.

Viviana ran in, full of concern.

‘My lady, what is it?'

‘'Tis naught. Only a dream.'

The windows rattled. Viviana went to them and pulled back the lace curtains. Bright sunlight streamed in. The storm had cleared.

Outside on a green hill near the garden wall, albino peacocks swaggered, unaware of their status in the eyes of the Royal Carver. Nannies monitored overdressed children freed from the Palace Nursery, frolicking with their wooden hobby-horses, their whipping-tops, their pet dwarfhorses the size of small dogs. Citizens of Caermelor peered in through the bars of the iron fence, past the shoulders of the Royal Guards, hoping to catch a glimpse of royalty. The sequestered children stared back, equally fascinated. A diminutive son of an earl drove past the window in a child-sized carriage drawn by sheep. Savagely he wielded the whip.