A Tale of Two Castles(35)

“You may teach her now. She will pour, and I will drink.”

Oh no! My fingers turned to ice.

Cellarer Bwat’s face reddened. “But Your Highness, she isn’t ready.”

“No matter. As I am the king, it will be extraordinarily good practice for her. First I should like a tumbler of water. Water goes best with ginger cake, although our southern Lepai water tastes sweetest. Beer is preferable with plain. . . .”

A servant entered with his cake. The servants who had remained kneeling rose gradually, as if prepared to lower themselves again instantly.

Cellarer Bwat and I carried the wine bottle and other preparations to the dais table. Then we circled around to stand beside the king. Two more servants struggled up with the beer barrel. Cellarer Bwat held my elbow and guided my hand as I poured water from pitcher into tumbler. Almost inaudibly, he whispered, “Pour slowly, gent—”

“I thought I was speaking. I thought I was king, and people were to listen when I spoke.”

“Beg pardon, Your Majesty.”

How could Cellarer Bwat tell me what to do without speaking?

“No harm done. White wine is best with aged rabbit, an infrequent treat. . . .”

With the king listing beverages and foods, and with Cellarer Bwat’s hand under my forearm, I held the tumbler out to His Highness.

He took it carelessly and splashed the front of his cloak. I heard a sharp intake of breath from Cellarer Bwat.

“How clumsy,” the king said.

A servant rushed to him with a cloth, but he waved her away.

“It will dry.” He raised the tumbler, drank, then spit into my face.





Chapter Nineteen

My mouth fell open, and water and spittle dripped into it. How dare he? “Your Highness—” My voice was indignant.

Cellarer Bwat’s foot came down hard on mine.

The foot reminded me that I had rarely mansioned a humble role. I made my voice silken. “Beg pardon, Your Majesty. I regret your—my—clumsiness.”

“I forgive you. There is a pink wine they make in . . .”

The king went on speaking and eating between sentences. I wiped my face on my sleeve. After he finished his cake, he called for a bowl of fruit.

Since Cellarer Bwat couldn’t use words to instruct me, he held my hands and arms in a viselike grip that barred mistakes. With a mansioner’s concentration, I noted every move: how high we filled a tumbler with beer, how high with water, how much wine went into a goblet after the wine had been pronounced drinkable.

His Highness didn’t spit on me again, but he thrust out a leg and tripped one of the servants who was going off to fetch a fresh keg of beer. The servant apologized and was forgiven instantly.

I pondered whether the king liked the servant and me better for our humiliation, or liked us less, because he knew he had been at fault, really, each time.

The castle bells chimed noon. My mind drifted back to pieces I might perform. Perhaps a funny recitation would be best. I could tell an animal fable.

After the fruit had been devoured, the king raised the bowl, so a shaft of sunlight hit it. “Such excellent porcelain. See, girl, how the light glints through it?”

He was addressing me, and I didn’t dare tell him to call me Elodie. “I see, Your Highness.”

“I do not own such a fine piece. I wonder if his is all so good.”

Then he sent for a bowl of chicken gizzards. If Greedy Grenny kept eating until the guests arrived, I wouldn’t have a moment to rehearse. He licked his fingers after eating his gizzards. His fingers and lips shone with grease.

Suppose I recited the story of Princess Rosette, whose dog stole meat from the castle cook to prevent a wedding. The tale had three aspects of His Lordship’s danger: thievery, a dog, and a betrothal.

Greedy Grenny asked if the ogre kept any apple wine. A servant was dispatched. Meanwhile, the king began cracking walnuts, his latest craving. He had downed six tumblers of water, two of beer, and five half-filled goblets of wine. His insides must have been afloat, but he had given me a great deal of practice. Cellarer Bwat’s guiding hand on my arm had gradually lightened. I had learned to pour.

The apple wine arrived. With a flourish and without assistance, I uncorked the bottle and passed it under the king’s nose at precisely the correct distance. The king pronounced the wine excellent. “But it is not quite the flavor to accompany walnuts.” He frowned. “I must have dried cherries.”

I despaired of leaving the hall before the feast began. Humble, I told myself as an idea formed, feel humble. I curtsied so deeply that my trembling legs almost gave way. “Pardon me—”

Cellarer Bwat whispered a cry of dismay.

“How dare you address me? Insupportable!”

Prison for me. But I thought I knew him by now. I used my quaking legs and pitched over to the side and onto the floor, away from the table and his legs. “Oof!”

He laughed and went on laughing, while I tried to get up and made myself fall again.

“You may rise.”

I scrambled up, awkward on purpose.

“You have leave to speak.”

I told him I was to perform tonight and begged for time to practice. “I would hate to disgrace Lepai.”

He gave me leave to leave. Cellarer Bwat’s face was purple, I supposed because he would have to pour for the king now. I pitied him, but not enough to stay.