With another wordless bow, the servants gestured for Vadim and Reynard to follow them.
The small feast in their honor turned out to be a grander, more lavish affair than anyone, even Anselm, could have possibly anticipated.
At the appointed hour, Anselm and his friends gathered within a large antechamber, a lofty structure of marble and dazzling gold. Suddenly, the two vast doors of the feasting hall swung open and they joined the merry tide of other guests as they flowed into the room, chattering and laughing as they jostled to be first inside.
Anselm looked about him with wonder. So much for Rodmar living in exile! This mighty palace was a far cry from the wilderness he had imagined. Everything was pristine, well ordered and immaculately presented. Truly, it was a majestic place.
No detail had been overlooked. From the tableware to the highly polished marble floors, everything glistened and shone. Anselm had never seen his own reflection looking back at him from so many directions. There wasn’t so much as a rush-strewn floor anywhere—nothing at all like the world they had left back home.
High above the heads of the guests soared yet another vaulted ceiling, every inch covered in a painted mural depicting the heavens and the celestial bodies to be found there. Stars and planets floated alongside angels and demons, each detailed image a work of art in its own right. Anselm’s neck began to ache with his staring upward for so long.
After being supplied with drinks, the guests were escorted into the main feasting chamber by the palace’s numerous servants. A sudden audible gasp of awe rose up at the sight that awaited them.
Four long tables had been arranged about a pond that had been built into the marble floor. Its clear water teemed with golden fish, swimming lazily beneath a plethora of floating exotic flowers, the names of which Anselm could not even guess at. Continuing with the water-based theme, each corner of the room was marked with another, slightly different, version of an indoor fountain, a subtle reminder that here in the desert, water was a commodity more valuable than mere gold.
Only in his dreams had Anselm imagined the existence of such a magnificent place. Cradling his goblet of wine, he settled his backside into the comfortable seat of his well-cushioned chair.
“Great gods,” he declared loudly over the rumble of conversation. “Just look at the size of that centerpiece.”
“Oh, is that a centerpiece?” Fergus remarked with a toothy grin. “And here I was thinking that it was a purple hedgerow. You know, a barrier to separate us from our betters.” For once, the youth was remarkably sweet-smelling and he looked rather neatly groomed, too, which made for a pleasant change.
“Well, whatever it is, I can barely make out your father’s face for the amount of shrubbery currently obscuring it.”
“Ah, well,” Fergus said, raising a silver goblet to his lips. “No great loss there, then.”
From where he sat at Anselm’s other side, Hugh leaned forward, frowning, his elbows propped up on the table. “Things are still strained between the two of you, I take it? I confess, I still don’t understand why. It’s a real shame, especially seeing as the two of you used to be so close.”
“Used to be. Precisely that, my dear fellow. Past tense. Over. Done with. Finished. Rather like my wine, in fact. Excuse me, girl.” Fergus caught hold of the flowing sleeve of a passing serving girl as she whisked by carrying a tall, narrow jug in her hands. “Would you be so good as to replenish my goblet?”
As the girl regarded Fergus’s fingers on her sleeve, Anselm glimpsed a flash of temper from within the depths of those almond-shaped eyes. A moment later and the look was gone.
“I will, m’lord, and gladly.” The girl cast her eyes downward in a suitably subservient manner. “Far be it from me to neglect the needs of the queen’s most honored guests.” But as she glanced up again, the brilliance of her smile was at odds with the humility of her words.
An alarm bell set off inside Anselm’s head, clanging a warning. Something wasn’t right here, but for the life of him he couldn’t decide what it was. Had being so hungry had addled his brains?
However, one thing was perfectly clear. This was no ordinary serving girl.
“Leave the jug and continue about your duties, girl,” Anselm said, suddenly anxious to be rid of the wench. “There’s nothing else we require.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Sir Anselm,” Fergus said, subjecting the girl to a leery, slightly intoxicated, smile. “A plentiful supply of wine is but one of a man’s many needs.”
“Be that as it may, you are fortunate enough to have a pretty young wife waiting for you back home, remember. Or perhaps you have already forgotten her?” Anselm arched his eyebrows meaningfully. The young buffoon was already sozzled. Had he spent the entire afternoon swimming around in his cups? Apparently so. “Perhaps your father was right when he claimed your attachment to Effie was only ever of the most fragile kind.”
Abruptly releasing the serving girl, Fergus planted his hands on the table and pushed himself upright. The silver and glassware rattled alarmingly as he somehow staggered onto his feet.
“How dare you!” he roared, fixing Anselm with a rather unsteady glare. “Effie is my life. She means everything to me, do you hear? Everything!”
“Is that so?” Anselm propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, observing the irate young man with interest. “You do still love her, then? I had begun to wonder.”
“Aye, I love her, all right. I love my sweet Effie to dish… dish-traction and all the way back again.” Fergus swayed and pitched, quite oblivious of the audience they’d begun to attract. Even the diversion of some lively pipe music failed to drown out all of Fergus’s nonsensical jabbering.
“Noble words, Fergus.” Anselm said with a smile. “A fine sentiment, indeed!” But before Fergus could be too pacified, he added, “So why were you just pawing at this serving wench then, hmm?”
“Serving wench?” The girl’s eyes almost bulged from their beautiful sockets. Thank heaven looks weren’t arrows or Anselm would have surely fallen to the floor, quite dead, for both she and Fergus glowered at him, regarding him with matching expressions of hostility.
Still gripping her wine jug, the girl shoved her way past Fergus, her unusual cat-like eyes glittering amber fire as she came over to where Anselm sat. Clearly the strange chit was furious about something.
“Uncouth boar of a man!” she snarled in Anselm’s face. “How dare you address me thus!” Strands of black, shining hair whipped about her face as she spoke, filling the air with the faint scent of jasmine. “Vile North-man! Your manners are as foul as thy stench.”
Anselm chuckled, observing her unbridled wrath with great amusement. “Then your sense of smell must be at fault, my dear, for I’ve only just stepped out of my bath. I assure you, sweetheart, I used plenty of soap—”
“Insolent lout! Hast thou no respect for thy betters?”
“Thy betters?” Anselm’s eyes widened. My. What a feisty creature she was, glaring down at him with her white teeth bared in a snarl. She rather put him in mind of a angry kitten. Entranced as he was by this endearingly sweet display of teeth and claws, Anselm could not help but chuckle. “Indeed, I had no idea that maidservants were regarded so highly in these lands.” The poor wretch must be deficient in some way, which was a great pity for she was rather attractive in her drab manner.
“A maidservant?” Now it was the girl’s turn to look shocked. She raised her dark eyebrows—the perfect frame for those incredible amber eyes of hers. “A maidservant!”
At that very same moment, Anselm noticed Vadim and Reynard leaning around the purple centerpiece frantically gesturing at him. Eyes wide with alarm, their faces were matching masks of horror. What was that they were mouthing to him? Whatever it was, Anselm couldn’t read their lips, distracted as he was by the nearness of the angry serving girl, and the accompanying pipe
music.
Why was Vadim drawing his finger over his throat like that?
Oh dear. Had a member of their party been murdered? Anselm frowned. Or was it a warning that this mentally unbalanced serving girl was, in fact, an assassin who had been sent to kill him.
The knuckles of the girl’s delicate hands were stark white now, so tightly did she clench the handle of her metal jug. “If you think me a common serving maid, then you are either dangerously rude or immensely simple, sir knight,” she hissed.
The music came to a sudden, abrupt halt, and the void it left behind was quickly filled by the rush of curious whispers racing up and down the table.
Hugh kicked Anselm’s ankle. “Stop. Talking,” he said through the bared teeth of his wide, fixed smile. “Apologize at once!”
“To her? Whatever for?” Anselm was damned if he would ever beg the pardon of some lowly serving wench, no matter how prettily deluded she might be.
At that moment, Reynard arrived at their side of the table wearing a smile as wide as Sir Hugh’s—and just as insincere.
“Ah, here you all are. Fergus, Sir Anselm, Sir Hugh,” he said, briefly inclining his head to each of them in turn. “So this is where you’ve been hiding yourselves, is it?”
Anselm blinked. Had Reynard sustained a blow to the head today? Either that or he must be as pickled as his son. For sure, the purple centerpiece separating their respective sides of the table was a considerable barrier but it wasn’t quite high enough to fully conceal them from view. Reynard knew full well where they were all sitting. He must have. Eyes as shrewd as his would never overlook such a detail. But for the sake of keeping the peace, Anselm decided to play along.
“Good evening to you, Lord Upton,” Anselm said politely. “Have you come to rid us of this troublesome wench? If so, do have a care, for I fear she is…” Subtly, he tapped the side of his head. “… not quite fully armored, if you catch my meaning.”
A collective gasp went around the table. Oh, wonderful. Now what had he said?
Reynard gave a harsh bray of forced laughter and slapped Anselm’s back. Hard. Too hard. It was more of a thump, actually. “Oh, Sir Anselm, you are too much. Always the jester. Now— please!—cease your teasing before my sides split open with mirth.”
A jester, hmm? So why was no one else smiling? Well, apart from Hugh, that is. He was still grinning away like a simpleton.
“I swear to you, m’lady,” Reynard continued with the same false cheer as before, “if Sir Anselm weren’t Lord Edgeway’s brother then he might make a decent living as some rich man’s fool.”
M’lady? Oh damn. This wasn’t good. Not good at all. Who the devil was she? Some distant relative of the king, perhaps? It must be very distant, for she did not resemble Rodmar in the least.
“Lady Miriam, may I present Sir Anselm, and this fine fellow sitting beside him is Sir Hugh… ” Hugh stood up, forcibly hauling Anselm to his feet at the same time.
“… and over there we have my son and heir, Fergus.”
At some point in the proceedings Fergus had flopped back down in his seat. Grinning like a dribbling dunderhead, he raised his cup high in greeting. The drunken oaf.
Sir Hugh swept Lady Miriam a low courtly bow. “M’lady.” The older knight could always be relied upon to behave properly. “’Tis my greatest pleasure to finally meet you,” he said respectfully.
Still hugging the jug of wine to her breast—a rather fine and shapely breast, now that Anselm came to study it further—Lady Miriam extended her free hand to Hugh and allowed him to raise it to his lips.
“Sir Hugh. I am pleased to discover that not all Northmen are boorish dullards,” said she in a slightly accented voice, darting a narrow-eyed glance at Fergus and Anselm.
Reynard, however, had not finished his long-winded introduction. “Gentlemen,” he continued. “May I introduce the Princess Miriam. King Rodmar’s youngest sister.”
Princess? Anselm’s stomach plummeted into his boots. Oh, hellfire!
The lady smiled and, without warning, she raised her pitcher and upended it over Anselm’s head, anointing him in a flood of crimson wine. Much to the amusement of his companions and all the other assembled guests.
Chapter Seventeen
“That vicious little harridan!”
Back in the room he shared with Sir Hugh, with great difficulty, Anselm hauled his saturated silk tunic—his smartest and costliest garment—over his head. “How the devil was I to know she was Rodmar’s brat of a sister?” In temper, he hurled the ruined tunic to the far side of the room where it hit the wall with a wet thud before dropping to the tiled floor.
His hands still shook, so livid was he. “And, what, may I ask, was all that about, eh? Flitting about the banqueting chamber dressed as a common serving wench. Hah! A princess, indeed. Well if you ask me,” he said wagging a trembling finger at Vadim who was lounging in the doorway, with the most irritating look of amusement upon his face, “that royal brat has been indulged for far too long. No wonder the king wants his women folk back home with him. The entire lot of them are probably half feral by now, sorely in want of a man’s hand to steady them.”
“Is that so?” Vadim was struggling not to smile. Anselm could tell by the way his lips were twitching.
“Yes, it is. And you can stop pretending to be sympathetic, brother, for you cannot act for buttons. Go ahead and laugh if you have a mind to. Everyone else certainly did.” Anselm cringed as he recalled the gales of laughter that had followed his hasty retreat from the banqueting hall.
Vadim chuckled. “Forgive me, but you must admit it was somewhat amusing.”
“Yes, no doubt it was excessively entertaining to witness. Hilarious, in fact. However, believe you me, you wouldn’t be smiling about it if you were in my boots.”
“I dare say you’re right.”
Striding over to the washstand, Anselm poured a jug of tepid water into the basin and submerged his head in it, swishing his hair from side to side. Like drifting strands of bloody seaweed, his hair soon turned the water a rather nasty shade of pink.
“Ugh. Hand me that soap, would you, Vadim? Thank you.” After working the soap to a lather, Anselm scrubbed violently at his hair and scalp. “If that wine turns my hair the same color as Aunt Lulu’s, I swear I’ll throttle that royal vixen.”
To be fair, the old lady’s hair was much less gaudy these days. Indeed, it was probably almost back to its normal shade by now—whatever that might be. Which was more than could be said for the state of his own sorry locks.
After several more rinses, Vadim assured Anselm that the pinkish tint was barely noticeable at all. Although unconvinced, Anselm could only take him at his word. What did it really matter, anyway? Pink hair was nothing compared to the humiliation he’d already suffered this evening.
“Shall I go and make your apologies to the queen?” Vadim asked.
Anselm glanced up from where he was sitting on the bed, briskly towel-drying his hair. “Whatever for?”
Vadim shrugged. “I merely assumed you wouldn’t want to go back—”
“What? And miss the chance of a decent feed? Not bloody likely. The problem is, what am I to wear?” With the exception of his ruined tunic, all of Anselm’s decent clothes were back home in Edgeway.
A quick rummage in his saddle pack produced a crumpled black shirt which had been tightly stuffed into one corner. He gave the garment a few brisk shakes, sending a miniature dust cloud up into the air. To be sure, the shirt was a little worn and faded in parts, but it was reasonably clean at least. Anselm took a tentative sniff at one of the armpits. A little horsey, perhaps, but nothing truly offensive. Nothing a dab of lavender water couldn’t fix.
Once dressed—the worst wine stains sponged from his black breeches, and his hair neatly brushed and smoothed—Anselm turned to Vadim. “There. How do I look?”
; Vadim grinned. “I’ll say this for you, brother, you have balls.”
“True enough. Rather fine ones. But what about the rest of me? Do I pass muster?”
“Yes, you’ll do fine.”
Thankfully, no one seemed to notice as they slipped back into the feasting hall. Fortunately for Anselm, a troop of exotic dancing girls now claimed the attention of every red-blooded male in the room. Quite transfixed—their eyes a-bulging; their mouths all but drooling—the men stared at the graceful gyrations of those scantily-covered hips, so full and ample, swaying to the rhythm of a veritable wall of throbbing drums.
With a brief nod, Anselm and Vadim parted ways and resumed their former seats.
“Where have you been for so long?” Hugh shouted to Anselm over the frenzied beat of the drums. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”
“What? And miss all this?” Anselm grabbed a leg of chicken and took a bite. Immediately, a rush of delicious spices filled his mouth. Erde. That was so good. The meat was perfectly cooked being both tender and sweet, almost falling from the bone as he held it in his hand.
“Well I’m heartily glad that you’re back. Young Fergus is fast becoming a bit of a handful.” Hugh jerked his head to indicate their drunken companion who was swaying dangerously in his seat. The high back and armrests were all that prevented him from toppling to the pristine floor.
“I’m amazed he’s still conscious.” With great relish, Anselm sucked each of his fingers in turn, cleaning them of every last drop of chicken juice before he reached for another chunky, brown-glazed leg. Delicious.
Fergus didn’t eat. Tankard raised—oblivious to anyone around him—he kept braying lustily at the dancers and patting his knees in a manner no woman of good sense would ever find remotely tempting.
So much for his precious Effie and his intense declarations of eternal love.
It was all too much for the gentlemanly Sir Hugh. “Be quiet, you young idiot!”
“Would you like me to hit him again?” Anselm asked helpfully.
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