Infinite Blue Heaven - A King and A Queen (2 page)

“I love you.” She murmured as she threw herself on top of me, on my great bed, when we reached my chambers. She kissed me lightly and I clasped my hands in the small of her back.

“So what are we doing tonight?” I asked.

“Shall I show you?” she said with a quizzical smile on her bright face.

“Show me? What do you mean?”

She got up, lifting the hem of her long dress and ran out of the room, towards her own chamber.

She returned a few moments later with a strange device which I had not seen before.

It consisted of a long, thin base, in three tongued sections, about three feet long in total and two vershok wide Rising from it were fourteen rods, each with seven coloured beads on it. The colours were green, red, yellow, blue, black, white and purple.

I laughed. “What is it? It looks like some new form of abacus.”

“It is, sort of. You know I asked if you get the master carpenter and blacksmith to make me a simple calculating device?”

“Yes, some months ago now.”

“I know. They were most terribly slow but you keep them too busy with your war-plans. Anyway, this is what I asked for. It is a sort of calendar. It shows what events I have planned for the next two weeks. See. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... ”

“I looked to the base of the rods, where her finger was pointing and saw the days of the week inscribed on the wood, three times over for the twenty-one rods.”

“But there is a spare week!”

“Yes. I will show you. These are the next two weeks. Red is a party or banquet or something fun! Black is something to do with war, one of your meetings. Green is for activity in the country, riding or hunting. Purple is for my baths!” She laughed. “Yellow is for your parliament sessions. Blue is for my activities with my friends. White is for my time with you, not enough of it as you see. And purple is for... Well, I haven’t figured that out yet but I knew I would need a spare. At the moment I just use it for sleeping in late. You see, I have one of those tomorrow.” She giggled. “Anyway, when today is gone and I have planned the Tuesday in two weeks’ time, then I just shift the beads to the next spare rod marked Tuesday.” I realize today was Tuesday.

“Oh I see and when we get to the end of the week, you can detach the base for this week?”

“Exactly!” She demonstrated, by lifting the almost empty last week slightly in its tongued join at the bottom.

“It’s very clever!” I laughed.

“Exactly.” She put it down proudly on the table against the wall and we both looked at it.

“So what are we doing tonight?”

“Oh. Can’t you see? Two red beads on top of the Tuesday rod.”

“Why seven beads for each day?”

“Two for the morning, early and late, two for the afternoon, early and late, one for tea time or dinner and two for after dinner, early and late.”

“And red is?”

“Oh. You are stupid! Red is for a banquet!”

“Oh yes. Now I remember. Is it all arranged?”
“I think so.” I usually let her make all the domestic arrangements and recently I had extended this responsibility to banquets.

I didn’t mention to her that I would be leaving in the early morning for a tour of inspection, which might interrupt her lie-in.

We entered the Great Banqueting Hall, on the ground floor at about eight o’clock and it was packed with peacock guests.

“King Vaslav and Princess Shakira,” announced the Court Herald.

We walked, hand-in-hand to the dais and sat down beside each other. We each had on our best, high wigs, as befitted persons of our standing, although we both felt ridiculous and hoped that fashion would finally declare this obsolete soon. I felt stuffy in it and this wasn’t helped by the white powder she had smeared on my face.

“Oh must I, Shakira?” I had moaned.

“You must. It’s traditional and it’s still the fashion.”

Lord Bulya and his wife, Selima, sat opposite, in the position of greatest honour and Shakira had done her best to arrange the other top ten Lords and their partners in a manner which most befitted their status and avoided possible conflicts. Not all the partners were wives of course. Lord Sarala had with him his first Mistress, which was no longer a scandal. His wife had long since satisfied herself with the legal certainty that she would inherit his wealth, to be shared with her son, the rightful heir to his province. She merely had to stop him spending all his wealth on his three mistresses before he died.

As red wine and potka was served with course bread, the minstrels launched into a long and well know romantic ballad and some of the already more drunk guests, sang along with the vocalist, at the top of their voices.

“Really,” said Lord Sarala. “If only they had melodious voices, I wouldn’t mind!”

He was a bit of a fop and Shakira and I touched knees conspiratorially, under the great oak table.

I had deliberately forgone food all evening and now I was ravenous. I stuffed the bread down, with the wine, only pausing because I knew the richness and delights of the food that would follow. I burped loudly when I had swallowed the last mouthful I wanted and emptied the glass. Burping was something taught to me as good manners, when I was a child.

Shakira’s knee banged into mine in admonition. I glared at her.

Lord Kospan’s wife, Ukabala was talking to Shakira conspiratorially, probably about men, or fashion, as the ballad reached its climax.

“Oh! I love this bit,” said Lord Kospan, and joined in. “And so my heart was finally ren-ded. And all was bro-ken.”

Even Lord Bulya was rocking his head from side to side, his bulk in time with the music, as he munched on a crust of the bread.

I glanced briefly around the room to see how many faces I could recognise. I could see an increasing number of young, and unfamiliar, faces on the peripheral tables, no doubt populated by Shakira's invitation, but this was by no means a bad thing. New blood is usually a good thing in Court. The servants bustled about between tables and dais, some carrying large silver trays held high above their heads. Some were in pairs, carrying even bigger pewter trays or even iron ones, with boar’s heads on, roasted to a crisp delight, with oranges or other fruit from the orchard, resting around their bases. This was a touch Shakira had introduced lately, and I must say, it was popular with guests. I looked at the massive iron-framed Chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling and how the light danced across faces and walls alike and smiled. It was a jolly feast. There was only one thing marring it but it was such a small thing, I couldn’t really complain about it. I looked at the faces around me and like mine, their powdered faces with starting to streak with sweat.

There were many long, wide corridors leading from the outer windows of the palace to this chamber, to conduct cool draughts in and across the Hall and during the summer months the roasting spits in a kitchen against the outer walls were used, to let the heat escape and especially, to keep it away from the Banqueting Hall. Unfortunately, for some reason, the cooks had deemed that not enough meat could be turned on those spits alone and one of those in the inner kitchen had been used. This had caused enough heat to make me, at any rate, uncomfortable. I couldn’t understand it. When I was younger, there were just as many people and yet we always had enough meat in the summer months, using only the spits in the outer kitchen. I would have to inspect the spit-boys to find out whether they were doing a proper job or not. I turned my attention to the jugglers and acrobats taking the centre of the Hall.

The next course was being laid, as they began their performance. Shakira had instructed the cooks to use this recipe, from Europe.

“What is it?” I asked, looking eagerly at the yellowish flat surface of the contents of my white bowl.

“It’s a sort of cheese souffle,” she said. “With wild mushrooms and herbs and salmon.”

“Hmm.” I was skeptical but her choices usually pleased my palate. I could see the other members of the High Table watching me to see if I would try it first, not out of deference, I might add. I wasn’t sure if it was liquid or not so I dug my spoon in, cautiously. A jelly like substance filled my spoon and then my mouth, as I let my taste-buds explore its flavour.

“Mm. It's good.” It really was very good. The others smiled and started on theirs.

This light meal was accompanied by a non-alcoholic drink made with blackberries but Lord Bulya had soon added potka to his.

“Nice. Very good,” he said with a full mouth.

Conversation turned to politics and military matters, with Lady Kospan peering around Shakira to ask me politely the opening question, what opinion did I have of the Chief City Planner’s scheme to redirect the course of the River around the City, thus allowing more houses to be built. It was an innocuous question and I was only too happy to discuss it.

“I think it is an interesting idea but perhaps best applied elsewhere. I feel that the City is plagued with enough sanitation problems already without diverting the one reliable means of cleansing that it currently has.”

“Why don’t you do something about the City Cleaners then? They don’t work hard because they are not paid enough,” said Lord Abdil’khan.

I knew he would be a lesser wage-payer than I, had he the chance. He was just looking to score points.

“And if I were to pay you a sum of 500 rubles per year for their salaries, how much would you pay them?” I asked him, staring down at my souffle. I knew he would have difficulty with this, knowing that I might just do it.

“Ahh. What are they currently paid?” he asked.

“How can you suggest they should have a raise, if you don’t know their current wage?” I asked. He had taken the less embarrassing option of admitting ignorance, rather than greed.

Lord Bulya was clapping and laughing at the exchange. He always enjoyed a good argument. It was one of his only redeeming features. He chose this moment to launch an attack.

“And what of the Invasion in the north?” he asked. There was attentive silence from the others.

I took my time answering, thinking all the time how to conceal the true nature of my plans, while giving them something plausible enough to maintain stability in the Court.

“I have a plan.” I said matter-of-factly. “Oh yes. But it is in the planning stage. Tomorrow I will inspect my own troops, now recovered I hope from last winter’s battles and then, you and I, Lord Bulya will put our heads together to knock out the strategy.” It was, of course, all nonsense. I was not inspecting my own troops the next day and I had no intention of discussing my plans with the one man who could, given half a chance, pose a threat to me. He seemed satisfied with the answer.

The roasted meats were carved now and our souffle dishes were quickly replaced with great plates laden with the various, steaming produce of our great farm-lands. The only additions to meat were turnips, parsnips and a bread made with onions and mare’s milk. In the centre of the Hall, the jugglers and acrobats had been replaced by an invited traveler, who was talking about distant lands, China, Africa and Europe. I only knew this because Shakira had showed me the itinerary. You couldn’t really hear him above the cacophony of voices, fueled by alcohol and food, laughing, singing and talking. I snapped my fingers for another glass of wine and after another two, was feeling quite relaxed and mellow. Shakira held my hand, on the table for a moment.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Ummh. Very much.” She was eighteen now and beautiful and I was proud to have this woman sitting at my side.

“Ahh. The beautiful Princess!” exclaimed Lord Bulya. “And how close they seem now. I often wonder at how close you are.” He had said the word ‘wonder’ with just the right amount of awe to make it ambiguous. Did he mean ‘wonder’ as in wonderment, or ‘wonder’ as in ‘ask myself.’ If the latter, it was a dangerous comment to make, suggesting, as it did, impropriety. There was a hushed silence, as my answer was awaited. I could not be bothered to play this game and so asked him, “What are you suggesting Lord Bulya?”

He mumbled something about how it was only natural for the Princess to be close to the King and the moment had passed.

By the time the pudding had arrived, I was feeling bloated and nearly drunk. I eased off on the wine and forwent the final round of cakes and biscuits.

It was the tradition, at such Banquets, that no guest should leave before the King and although I knew I had not reached that moment yet where people would wish for my departure, in fact I was ready to leave, and after consulting with Shakira, I stood up. The Court Herald shouted in a loud voice, “The King and Princess retire,” as we passed into the corridor beyond and on to the Great Stairs.

“You didn’t tell me you were inspecting the troops tomorrow,” Shakira said as we walked hand in hand along the long corridor to our own small Banqueting Hall.

“I’m not.” I replied.

“But you told Lord Bulya…”

“She stopped and pulled hard on my hand to swing me around to face her penetrating eyes.”

“Shakira. I am leaving tomorrow but I am going to review a different kind of army.”

“Tell me who, then.”
I knew it was useless trying to resist her inquisition. She would only be deeply hurt if I didn’t confide in her and the aftermath of that could last weeks, months or even years!