The Black Prince: Part I (34 page)

“Alright.” Lissa was frustrated with herself for not learning faster. She wanted to know everything and she wanted to know it
now
. Having access to books, to learning, was like stumbling into an oasis after a months long trek through the desert. Her own limitations made it like finally tasting cool, crisp water but only with the tip of her tongue. She wanted to gulp, not dip.

“Are you practicing with Tad?” This said without any hint of condescension. The other woman acted as though a girl of nineteen winters learning with a boy of eleven was the most normal thing in the world.

“He was meant to bring home another tablet, so you can practice your letters. Did he?”

“Yes.” Lissa had been overwhelmed at the generosity.

“Good. Then you can impress Hart by writing him a love poem.”

“I…about what?” Lissa made a small gesture of protest. She could never do such a thing. She wouldn’t have the first notion of what to say.

“Praise the girth of his manhood. They always like that.”

“G—Thomasina, I mean.” Lissa felt uncomfortable broaching the question although, again, she had no idea why. That no one under this house should have the first reservation about sex except the former prostitute was an irony that hadn’t escaped her notice. “How many lovers…have you had?”

“Oh, girl. Hundreds.”

It had, Lissa decided, been a day of discovery.

“I
can’t
believe
you’ve pulled this same stunt twice.”

Isla was furious. No. Beyond furious. There wasn’t a word adequate to describe the white hot—more than rage coursing through her. Her insides felt like one of the exploding mountains in the East, that Tristan’s books described.

Rowena’s expression was studiedly innocent. She was standing in the center of the room—Isla’s room—while a tailor pinned fabric around her. Not Eir. Eir’s interest in the domestic arts apparently extended only to Isla. Eir was present though, sitting by the fireplace in her woodland garb. One long, thin leg was stretched out in front of the other, and she was smoking a pipe. She was watching the proceedings with interest, which made Isla even more upset. Couldn’t she
do
something?

“My wedding dress is going to be more attractive than yours.”

“Good for you.”

“Don’t you care?”

“Passionately.”

It was nice enough: a fitted surcoat made from dark blue velvet with a lighter blue linen beneath.

“I need more gold.”

The tailor looked at Isla.

“No you don’t.”

Rowena turned. “Why are you looking at her? It’s
my
dress and
my
wedding.”

“Yes,” Isla snapped. “Paid for by me.”

“I demand better.”

“Then get married in your shift.”

“I bet
your
wedding dress was more expensive.”

Eir was laughing again.

“When did you write to Rudolph? And how?”

“Who says I did?”

“He does, you nitwit.”

“This,” Eir hissed, “is better than the puppet show at the brothel.”

“I bet you’re a big hit there.” Rowena swiveled her piggish eyes to the gnome.

“Yes. I go to…rent the pretty boys.”

Excusing herself, the tailor stood up and walked into the garderobes.

Things couldn’t get any worse, Isla decided. They just couldn’t. She’d be the laughing stock of Barghast within the week, if she wasn’t already. Isla and her traveling band of fools.

The door opened and Greta came in.

“You’re needed in the kitchens.”

Isla glanced at Eir. The gnome was now whittling a piece of kindling she’d pulled from the box into a miniature dagger. Isla could have used that dagger to stab her erstwhile tailor and protector. Who apparently saw that last duty as relevant only when she saw fit. But not at meal times, or rest times, or at any other time that might occasion the Gods-be-damned creature to stir her stump.

Eir smiled back in a flash of teeth. “I…will wait here. Guard the fat one.”

Rowena let out an indignant squawk.

Isla turned and left.

Trying not to feel like she’d been chased out of her own bedroom, she followed Greta down the hall.

Greta turned. “Why is Rudolph here? I mean,” she added, after a moment and in a slightly different tone, “not that I’m complaining. He’s a fop, but a cute one.”

Cute? She thought that waste of life was cute? Rudolph didn’t need a codpiece for his member, he needed one for his brain. “Rowena sent him a message.” Just like she’d done before. Rowena led that man around by the nose, and always had. Although Hart questioned his motives. And, Isla supposed, she did, too. For someone so willing to be led, Rudolph had never seemed to eager to actually be married.

“Don’t you wonder what’s underneath the padding?”

Isla turned. “What? No!” She made a face. “I’m sure it’s tiny, anyway.”

“So you
have
wondered.”

They arrived at the kitchens.

Caer Addanc’s kitchens were…enormous was the wrong word. They were a kingdom in and of themselves, a series of long, narrow galleries with vaulted ceilings from which all manner of smoked meats and herbs hung. The cook, along with the small army of men and women he oversaw, was responsible for feeding the entire castle and, as well, for stocking the larders not just against the North’s long winters but against possible siege.

The main kitchen was marked into three sections by three separate arch supports, and between each was a massive fireplace. Two were open, for hanging pots and turning roasting spits, with ovens on either side and the third was entirely ovens for baking bread and pies. A series of long tables provided work surfaces. The walls were lined with shelves.

Beyond the main kitchen was the scullery, where the messiest chores were performed. Dishes were washed, birds of all sorts were plucked and dressed for the ovens. Fish were cleaned in stone basins provided for the purpose. And beyond that again were the larders: dank, windowless rooms kept as cold as possible for the storage of butter, cheese, fruits and vegetables, nuts, oils, and the barrel after barrel of salted fish and various meats that made up so much of the winter diet. Spices, a precious commodity and a currency in their own right, were stored separately in a locked chamber. Only the cook himself and the castellan possessed keys.

The cook, who stood there with his hands on his hips and an evil look on his face, wore his about his neck.

Rudolph, who stood next to him, wore a look of utter defeat.

“There will be no sugar sculptures!” the cook thundered.

“
The Chivalrous Heart
….” Rudolph trailed off.

“You’ve come in here, to
my kitchen
, trying to bamboozle me into spending more on one night’s feast than most houses spend in a year. And,” he added, jabbing a finger at Rudolph, “without my master’s permission.”

“What makes you think—”

“If the duke wanted
sugar sculptures
, then the duke would be down here telling me this himself. Not you, in your ridiculous getup, trying to play me for a fool.” The cook was a fat man, and huge. He towered over Rudolph; he towered over most men. The skin of his neck flushed a dark beet red, which was creeping up into his cheeks. “I should rip off that codpiece and make you eat your wedding dinner out of it! I’m sure there’d be more than enough room to hold a king-sized feast, once you ripped the padding out.”

Poor Rudolph.

Seeing Isla, the cook turned. “He wants to steal my sugar!”

“Magnus,” she replied, in what she hoped was a soothing tone, “no one is going to steal your sugar.”

The cook shot a triumphant look at Rudolph.

“But Rowena—”

“Rudolph, Rowena is not mistress of this castle. I am. And Magnus is right: it’s completely inappropriate for you to be here, ordering my staff around as though it were your own. Magnus is—”

“Magnus is a servant!”

“Magnus is standing right here!” The cook’s glare intensified.

“Magnus is a trusted and valued member of this household and I’ll not have you addressing him in such a manner! Nor speaking about him as though he weren’t present. He has a job to do, which you are preventing him from doing. You, meanwhile, are a guest.”

“I’m the son of—”

“But you’ll have no sons if you—”

“Both of you, enough!”

Silence hit like a thunderclap.

Somewhere, a pot clattered to the floor.

She turned to Rudolph. “Explain yourself.” And though she was giving him the chance to do so, she was half tempted to boot him out into the mud regardless. He
was
a guest. He was also a man on the eve of marriage and Rowena’s corruptive influence was clearly too much for his weak mind. She’d sent him down here, no doubt about that, all the while smiling her false smile and pretending stupidity.

“According to
The Chivalrous Heart
”—he meant, according to Rowena—“all the finer tables serve subtleties. Special sugar sculptures, you know. In all manner of curious forms. Castles, ships, famous philosophers. Scenes from scripture. They’re served at the beginning of the banquet, as a means of alerting guests to the wonders to come. And between courses also, I believe.

“Rowena feels very strongly that, as her sister is now a relative of the king’s by marriage, she deserves a…suitable celebration.”

“I see.”

“I should go.”

“Yes.”

Rudolph left.

“A suitable celebration.” Magnus grunted. “I should make them eat pottage.”

Indeed. As part of a special penance, to help them enter the right frame of mind for marriage. Many in the church recommended prayer before the initial consummation, and every time thereafter. Perhaps Rudolph could be persuaded to wear a hair shirt under his ridiculous frippery. Or a cilice. Even better would be if she could have engineered the wedding to fall on one of those days where sex—marital or otherwise—was forbidden by the church.

Alas, their joint demand that they be married as soon as possible meant that Rowena and Rudolph would be joined in two days’ time. Which meant that they were quite fortunate that
any
feast could be prepared. Magnus was right: they should eat pottage. They should, once in their lives, either of them experience any consequence to their choices.

But Rowena was upstairs having a dress fitted and Rudolph had no doubt gone off to sulk.

“What is the menu?” Isla asked.

“I’d thought we could have bread and butter, honey-mustard eggs, pickled pears, sallet, egurduce, leek and potato pie and roast boar.”

“That all sounds delightful.”

“And it’s cheap.”

There was that.

“Is the feast still meant to start at noon?”

“Yes. The service is scheduled for midmorning.”

“Has anyone managed to secure one of those limp wristed, boy touching priests?”

In truth, no one had bothered to look. Rowena could get married in a Northern ceremony, or not at all. She hadn’t even bothered to ask which priest, or priestess, would be present but instead had left the choice up to Tristan. Her mind was on more important matters, like sugar. To say that Isla herself didn’t care, however, would be to deny the near white hot rage she felt at her sister for bringing all of this down upon their heads.

“No,” she said.

Magnus grunted. “Thank you, ma’am, for coming downstairs.”

“If either of them takes it in their heads to demand anything else, advise them to take the matter up with the duke. He would, I’m certain, be more than delighted to hear them out.”

Magnus grinned.

And then Isla felt a sharp tug on her sleeve.

Magnus swatted the offender with a gigantic, bear-like paw. “Don’t go touching the lady of the house, you twat.” Magnus seemed oblivious to the fact that his own behavior was hardly more decorous. Nowhere in
The Chivalrous Heart
did it advise using the word
twat
in the company of one’s mistress.

Rose recoiled.

Isla studied her. She looked different. Not thinner or fatter, just…worn. Experiencing the first honest work in her life would have that effect, Isla supposed. Before coming here, Rose’s life had been one of indolence: taking advantage of a poorly run manor and, then, Isla’s friendship to craft herself one self-interested situation after another.

And now here she was.

She had bags under her eyes, and a smudge of soot on her cheek. Her hair, like that of the other women in the kitchens, was tied back in a kerchief to keep it out of her eyes and out of the food. She was wearing the same brown homespun, too; whatever else they owned, no one here wore their best clothes to work to get covered in flour and spattered in grease.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Alright.”

“Outside.”

Isla let Rose lead her out through the door to the kitchen gardens. A door that, like all the points of entry to Caer Addanc, was heavily fortified. Isla couldn’t imagine someone in the kitchens committing treachery, but supposed that was foolish. People were cruel and stupid everywhere. Which was why, although the cook and his staff were responsible for locking and barring the door at night, there were nonetheless soldiers stationed to either side. A different pair during each of the castle’s three shifts.