The Bitterbynde Trilogy

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  ‘Should I be using them?’

  ‘Many courtiers do, but you need not, m’lady.’

  ‘Why not, if ’tis what others do? My face—is it acceptable? Tell me truly!’

  ‘My lady already has the look that others wish to achieve—she needs no paint.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Viviana halted her furious burst of hairdressing activity and planted her hands on her hips.

  ‘Does my lady jest?’

  ‘No. I do not jest. I wish you to tell me if my features are acceptable. Tell me now, and if they are not, I will not venture into that Hall this night, command or no command.’ Butterflies roiled in Rohain’s stomach.

  A loud rapping at the door startled them both. A voice called out imperatively.

  ‘Yes, m’lady, yes they are!’ Viviana squeaked hastily. ‘Quickly—to be late for dinner is an unpardonable lapse. M’lady would be Out before the first forkful.’

  ‘Then let us go.’

  The decoratively painted plaster walls of the great Royal Dining Hall, here and there covered with tapestries, soared to elaborately carved cornices and a domed, frescoed ceiling. Six fireplaces, three on either side, threw out enough warmth to fill its vaulted immensity. In a high gallery a trumpeter stood like a stalagmite dripped from the plaster ceiling plaques and chandeliers. He was one of the Royal Waits, wearing scarlet livery and the ceremonial chain of silver roses and pomegranates.

  Along the walls, edifices of polished wooden shelves lit by mirror-backed girandoles displayed ornamental silverware, tempting platters heaped with fruits and cakes, covered cheese dishes disguised as little milk churns or cottages, silver chafing dishes with ivory handles, and glowing braziers of pierced brass ready to warm food. Liveried butlers and under-butlers stood at attention beside every board. Broad trestles ran down the length of the Hall, draped with pure white damask cloths, lozenge-patterned. The High Table, set up at right angles to this, stood upon a dais at one end. Its snowy wastes were bare of tableware, save for a quartet of surtouts, the seasons personified; grand sculptures in silver-gilt. Spring, her hair garlanded with blossom, caught butterflies. Summer, laurel-wreathed, held out her dainty hand for a perching lark. Autumn, twined with grapevines, dreamed by a corn-sheaf, and Winter, crowned with holly, danced. Candlelight glittered softly from their frozen glory.

  The long tables, loaded with dinner service, made the High seem by comparison austere. A myriad white beeswax candles in branched candelabra reflected in fanciful epergnes of crystal or silvered basketwork, golden salvers lifted on pedestals and filled with sweetmeats or condiments, sets of silver spice-casters elaborately gadrooned, their fretted lids decorated with intricately pierced patterns, crystal cruets of herbal vinegars and oils, porcelain mustard pots with a blue underglaze motif of starfish, oval dish-supports with heating-lamps underneath, mirrored plateaux and low clusters of realistic flowers and leaves made from silk.

  On both sides a sanap—a long strip of white cloth—lay along the table edges. Individual place settings had been laid along the sanaps at regular intervals, hedged in by an array of gleaming weaponry—knives, forks, spoons, suckett forks, soup spoons, cake forks, dessert spoons, cheese knives, miniature tongs, fish forks; a veritable arsenal, all engraved with the royal insignia, all with matching handles ending in silver scallop shells. Milk-white serviettes in front of each setting had been cleverly folded into sailing ships. Beyond these cutlery fences, gardens of tall crystal goblets sprang up from long, slim stems, like tulips. Several silver table-top Seaships on wheels served as salt-cellars to be rolled along so that diners could help themselves.

  Quiet music wafted from an overhead gallery where a trio of minstrels fifed and strummed, ignored by the dour-faced Wait. A stream of noble courtiers flooded through the doors at the lower end of the Hall. At first glance they seemed not to be human, so fantastic was their raiment.

  Not one of these ladies seemed to be clad in fewer than three garments at once: a shorter surcoat, a longer half-sleeved kirtle worn beneath, and a full-length tight-sleeved undershift, the three contrasting hems and pairs of sleeves all tailored to be cleverly revealed. Their outer sleeves either fitted at the shoulder and hung in loose folds to be gathered into a tight band at the wrist, or they were tight, with a roll or gathered puff at the shoulder, or bell-shaped, sometimes turned back to the elbow, showing the fur lining, sometimes gathered into a bunch at the shoulder and left to fall in deep folds under the arm. So ridiculously long and full were many of the sleeves that the lower sections had been tied in great knots to prevent them dragging along the floor. Rich embroideries covered every yard of fabric. From the ladies’ girdles and chatelaines, harnessed with silver and gilt, hung keys and purses and little knives in pretty sheaths, to match the armbands, brooches and jewelled pins of these human peacocks. Their headdresses were exaggerated affairs, horned, steepled, gabled, flowerpot or resembling wide, fretted boxes.

  Taltries being unnecessary within dominite walls, the lords burdened their heads instead with large beaver hats or generously draped millineries of velvet and cloth, or cockscombs of stiffened, scalloped fabrics. Liripipes of impractical length twined around their owners’ heads and shoulders like strangler vines. There were hats with tippets dangling and flapping about, hats with coronets, hats with bulbous crowns, hats with long and voluptuous plumes and painted hoods. Dagged, jagged gorgets fell in a profusion of ornamented folds over the shoulders of the lords. Wide and embroidered tippets trailed to the ground.

  The persons of the lords were gorgeously encased in laced doublets, velvet jackets, embroidered surcoats, cotehardies with bunched shoulders, parti-coloured paltocks, court-pies and striped hose. So small-waisted were the fops among them, they must have been corseted.

  With painted faces floating above brilliant damasks, velvets, figured satins, samite, keyrse, tisshew, cloth-of-gold, shot silks, saffian, cambric, gauze, partridge, and baudekyn, this magnificent crowd milled around the trestles and chairs of carven oak. They stood by their accustomed places with their squires and pages and other personal attendants keeping guard at their backs. Some courtiers carried their pet cats on their arms: highly bred miniature lynxes, caracals, and ocelots, trained to sit demurely at plateside and daintily share the feast.

  ‘An it please my lady, wait behind the doors until the assembly be seated,’ the escorting footman had said. ‘The Steward of the Royal Dining Hall will proclaim my lady’s name as she enters, in order that she may become known to all.’

  A trumpet sounded.

  ‘Bide,’ whispered Viviana, attending close at Rohain’s elbow. She added unreassuringly, ‘Ah, would that there had been time to enamel m’lady’s fingernails—they look so overgoren bare.’

  Between fanfares, the voice of a steward or herald announced the arrival of various aristocrats of the upper echelons who took particular precedence. When these were seated, the rest took their places with a scraping of chairs and a murmur of conversation.

  ‘Lady Rohain Tarrenys of the Sorrow Isles!’

  Rohain entered the Dining Hall.

  Like a lens concentrating light beams, the appearance of a newcomer drew immediate and intense attention. Aware of the covert glances, the open stares and whispers, Rohain felt the blood rush to her face. The Hall seemed overheated and stifling.

  ‘This way, m’lady.’ An obsequious under-steward indicated an empty place and helped the new arrival arrange herself and her wayward petticoats into it. Rohain courageously lifted her eyes and nodded politely to those seated in her vicinity. Not one of them met her gaze for more than an instant, although she knew they scrutinized her intensely when she looked away. Her eyes scanned the faces of the rest of the company. Thorn was not among them. The under-steward introduced her to the young men seated on her left and right but she scarcely heard, so awed was she by the dazzling landscapes of the tables.

  Another trumpet blast seemed to be a signal. At its sound, ewerers approached the tables bearing
fish-shaped aquamaniles with spouted mouths, and proceeded to pour perfumed water over the diners’ hands. The water fell into small porcelain bowls with perforated lids, and was thus hidden from view, being now polluted. Serviettes for drying were proffered, then whisked away along with bowls and ewers. Following the handwashing, a formidable procession of servants carried in massive covered platters that were set down in the few available spaces.

  The High Table, with its canopy over the tall chair in the centre, was so far removed that it would have been difficult to make out the faces of any seated there. However, it remained empty of diners and food. The small silver tools chained to Viviana’s chatelaine jingled softly as she leaned to her mistress’s ear.

  ‘They will now begin the Credence and the Assaying. Your Ladyship need only wait.’

  ‘Why is the High Table empty?’ murmured Rohain.

  ‘The Royal Family and the Attriod, and others of the highest degree, frequently dine privately, in the Royal Dining Chamber or one of the parlors. The Lord Chamberlain, the Master of the Horse, and the Lord Steward have joined them this night; also the King-Emperor’s Private Secretary, the Crown Equerry, and the Keeper of the Privy Purse. Many lords who were staying at Court have returned to their own estates, what with the threat from the north and all.’

  When the courtier referred to the northern menace, her tone became grim. Her flow of information abruptly ceased. Rohain sensed the undercurrent of apprehension behind the words, and her queasiness doubled. Namarre—that strange, wild land seemed so far away, and yet its very name loured like an airborne pestilence over the Royal City.

  ‘And the Dainnan?’ Rohain’s gaze roved among the knights in white satin tabards seated along trestles at the far side of the Hall.

  ‘Their tables are poorly attended. Only one thriesniun dines with us this night.’

  One of the courtiers seated nearby shot Viviana a censorious glance. She drew back and stood respectfully to attention as before.

  At the top end of the long tables were arranged the earls and countesses, the viscounts and viscountesses, and one marquess. There, among side tables, moved the Tasters, who were commissioned with the job of dying if the food should be poisoned. They swallowed morsels with grace, deliberation, and an air of the utmost insouciance. Assayers touched the food with serpents’ tongues, crystals, agates, serpentine, and jewels from toads’ heads, all of which would change colour or bleed should poison be present.

  ‘With all these boats at table, one imagines that the Cook has arranged something diverting in the way of marine vittles for the second course,’ drawled the drooping-eyed courtier seated to the left of Rohain. Detached sleeves were tied at his shoulders with the laces they called ‘points’. Beneath them, the sleeve of his doublet was slit up to the shoulder to reveal a third set of sleeves, those of his silken shirt.

  Noting the nautical salt cellars, the sailing-ship serviettes, and the scallop-ended cutlery, Rohain forced a smile. ‘One would imagine so.’

  ‘Does my lady intend to stay long with us at Court?’ casually inquired the long-jawed fellow to the right. He wore a short gown with bagpipe sleeves and a harness with bells attached, slung across his shoulder.

  ‘I am uncertain, at this time …’

  Butlers serenely poured wine; rose, white, and gold. Crystal goblets enhanced the brightness and colour of the liquids. The rituals of Credence and Assaying seemed to be taking a long time. Making small talk was like mincing on a tightrope. Rohain felt that at any instant she might speak a false word and plunge into an abyss of condemnation. Catching her eye, Viviana nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Ah, the 1081 vintage Eridorre,’ said Droop-Eyes, admiring the wine. ‘A good year. And at last, the Tasters cease. One might expire of thirst.’

  Yet another brazen fanfare clove the air.

  The elderly marquess at the head of the table levered himself to his feet with difficulty, being stout and dreadfully gouty. Three long thin cords hung ornamentally from the yoke of his gown. Weighted with beads, they became entangled at the back, causing his page utmost concern. Heedlessly, the plum-cheeked aristocrat raised his goblet.

  ‘Let the cups be charged for the Royal Toast!’ he bellowed. The courtiers rose and looked around, holding high their goblets and drinking horns.

  ‘To the health of the King-Emperor—may His Majesty live forever!’

  With one voice, the company loudly echoed the marquess’s sentiment. Crystal rang against crystal. At a nudge from Viviana, Rohain noted that all the other ladies were holding their goblets by the stems rather than by the bowls. Quickly she changed her grip, but not before someone snickered daintily. All then lifted their drinking vessels, tasted, looked around once more, and sat down.

  ‘Let Dinner be served!’ boomed the Master of the Dining Hall. ‘The Soup! Green turtle, lobster bisque and cream of watercress!’

  The elderly marquess at the head of the tables leaned back slightly. His squire draped a large and luxurious napkin over his left shoulder, it being a breach of etiquette to demolish the starched linen ships. At this signal, the other bodyservants followed suit. Silver domes were whipped off tureens of steaming liquids. The first course commenced.

  ‘Much good do it you,’ the courtiers wished each other as they fell to, imbibing without a single slurp, with the exception of those at the head of the table where rank obviated the need for manners. By scrupulously imitating. the other diners, Rohain won through the soup course. When the soup bowls had been removed, the top layer of the sanap was taken away, revealing a clean, unspotted layer beneath.

  The seafood course was duly announced and launched with applause. It comprised a magnificent sturgeon that was carried around to be viewed before serving, to the accompaniment of a flute and violins played by musicians dressed as chefs. Two kitchen-hands wearing knives carried the horizontal nine-foot ladder upon which the whole baked sturgeon was laid out on leaves and flowers; beside them walked four footmen bearing flaming torches. The procession was led by the Head Porter, marching with ax in hand. After being paraded once around the table, the dish was borne out of the Hall for carving. During the entremet, the diners were entertained by, acrobats and a couple of overdressed mortal dwarves riding wolfhounds.

  At the actual serving of the marine fare, the diners picked up their silver fish forks in their right hands. With the edge of the implement, they cut off a small piece, then impaled it with the tines, raised the morsel to their mouths, and delicately closed their lips around it. The fork was put down while each piece was chewed, and taken up again to prepare the next bite.

  Rohain had been accustomed only to eating with hands and knife. She had glimpsed forks once, in the Dining Hall of the Tower—more common had been the sight, of the larger versions used to pitch hay up to stacks. Now she picked up the fork and held it as others did, with her index finger pointing toward the root of the tines. So intent was she on managing this with grace that she did not notice, until alerted by tittering, and an agonized whisper from Viviana, that all others held their forks with the curved tines pointing downward. The newcomer had been in fact partly spearing and partly scooping, using the fork like a spoon. It would seem wantonly perverse to deny the fork its useful ladle-like qualities, yet that was exactly what was expected. Hastening to turn it over, she dropped the offending instrument. It clattered boorishly against her plate. Another gaffe. She found it impossible to eat flesh in any case, and only picked at the garnishes.

  Across the table from Rohain and a little to the right sat a strikingly handsome lady, surrounded by many admirers. The ornate roll on her head, eighteen inches high and a yard in circumference, was bent around into a heart shape, the front worn low on the forehead, the sides raised to reveal gold-fretted nets covering her ears. Her fur-edged, cutaway surcoat revealed a contrasting, skintight kirtle. Huge quantities of fur had been lavished in the wide cuffs of sleeves that reached to the floor. Having ignored the newcomer up to the middle of the seafood course, she now
tossed a flashing smile in her direction, saying,

  ‘Dear Heart, how well you look, considering the travails of your long journey. Don’t you think she looks well, Lady Calprisia? Isn’t she just the prettiest thing? Lord Percival Richmond thinks so, don’t you, Percival, you’ve scarcely taken your eyes from her all evening! Don’t be alarmed, Dear Heart, Percival shall not bite, at least I don’t think he shall!’ She followed this with a chiming laugh. Others joined in.

  ‘That is Lady Dianella,’ whispered Viviana. ‘Beware.’

  ‘Speak up now—don’t be shy,’ continued the Lady Dianella. ‘How do you like our maritime theme for this evening?’ The lady’s smile was as brilliant as the jewels flashing at her throat, waist, and fingers.

  ‘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.