Quillifer

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

he royal lodge at Kingsmere is a mere twelve leagues north and west from Selford, but it took the court two days to reach it, for the Queen was accompanied by her mother, Leonora, her half sister Floria, her particular friend the Countess of Coldwater, as well as three dukes, four marquesses, nine counts, eighteen knights, and the two hundred servants of her household deemed most essential to the maintenance of her majesty. To these were added the wives and servants of the male guests, detachments of the Yeoman Archers, Roundsilver’s Company of Players, a band of monks, a boys’ choir, and assorted acrobats, minstrels, dancers, and the carters whose task it was to move the entire assembly from one place to another in more than two hundred carriages and carts.

The Marchioness of Stayne, regally with child, rode in her own carriage and disdained other company, thus proving, at least in her own mind, her superiority to the court at large.

Showing my fine saddle and indifferent horsemanship, I had rented a courser and was assigned a place in the column, behind the carriages of the guests and before the servants’ carts. I found myself amid a group of lawyers from the Chancellery, and they were pleasant enough company, though none were in a position to offer me employment.

The bridge to Mossthorpe was closed to other traffic while the great convoy rolled over it, which took almost half a day. After a night at the royal castle of Shornside, where I slept in an attic with the lawyers, we continued to the town of Gilmorton Royal, where the inhabitants turned out to cheer the Queen as she passed. Most of them, I am sure, were employed at Kingsmere for at least part of the year.

At the limit of the village we turned onto the manor grounds, and after passing through forests of quickbeam, oak, and ash, came to open grazing land, where we were greeted by a pair of giants—figures six or eight yards tall, one of which beat kettledrums while the other raised a great glittering trumpet to its lips and blew a call to welcome the Queen. (I think there were actual trumpeters hidden in its wickerwork breast.) These great puppets, worked by hidden cables and pulleys, wore tabards that showed the Red Horse, and bowed their leafy heads as Berlauda passed.

Here Viscount Broughton and his lady wife stood by the road to greet her majesty, along with the steward of the house, the gamekeepers, and the foresters. The lover and the wife and the Queen must all have been civil, for I heard no shots fired.

Over the course of the late afternoon the traveling fair that was the court disposed itself about Kingsmere. The old hunting lodge, bought by the Queen’s grandfather, had been enlarged and improved, and was now in the form of a long central building of golden sandstone, graced by a pair of long wings stretching forward and back on either side, the whole in the shape of an H. The central part was for the Queen and her noble guests, one of the large wings for their friends and servants, and the other wing was shared by the staff of the lodge and by a large stable block for the party’s hunting coursers. Lesser beasts were put up in barns, stables, and paddocks.

The lawn before the house sloped down to the lake, both lawn and lake rippled by the breeze. The low sun outlined the ripples with gold. At the pier was a boat that Broughton had constructed for her majesty, built in the shape of a swan and covered with real swan feathers.

After seeing to my horse, I was given a generous supper at a table set up in an outdoor garden—the Queen and her particular guests dined in the Great Hall inside—and then I slept on a rag-stuffed mattress, smelling of mildew, in a room reserved for the duke’s retinue, which in this case meant about half a dozen of the actors, none of whom I knew, but most of whom were already blind drunk, and had been for most of the day. There was little choice but to drink along with them, some sort of foul liquor which I hope never to encounter again.

Next morning, as morning bells tolled painfully in my skull, I joined the Roundsilvers for a day of shooting. We hunters were arrayed in a line, while a legion of beaters, recruited from the village, drove past us great flocks of pheasant, quail, and black grouse. The duke and duchess, firing a pair of matched silver-chased calivers, brought down their targets again and again. I had been loaned a caliver myself, a wheellock venerable but well maintained, but I barely knew how to load it, let alone shoot. I struck down none of the flying targets, but I enjoyed myself, standing with the others on a fine autumn day with the bracing scent of gunpowder on the wind. Nearly three thousand birds were killed during the course of the morning, and we would dine on the fowl, off and on, for the rest of the week.

That afternoon, the weather was suitable for a day on the lake, and so her majesty went out on Kingsmere in her swan-boat, this time with Broughton, whose wife disliked boats and would not go on the water. But her majesty was not entirely alone with him, for there were many other boats on the water filled with members of the court, and one barge with filled with minstrels, and Castinatto in the bow singing.

Still, I could see their heads together as they sat beneath the canopy in the stern, as in full view of the court as they were being rowed about by six men in Broughton livery.

Throughout the day I remained aware of Amalie, who had participated in the bird hunt, and who now lounged beneath an umbrella while being rowed about the lake by a servant. I’d had no opportunity to speak with her, let alone speak privately. Yet I was constantly aware of her presence, a kind of tremor in the atmosphere of which I was subtly aware, as if she were radiating some sort of invisible beams that prickled over my skin. She was always present, yet always unavailable. I was impatient and filled to the eyebrows with frustration, and it was in this mood that in the evening I viewed The Triumph of Virtue, the masque that Blackwell had been employed to write.

Few of the company’s actors were involved, for most of the parts in the masque that did not involve singing were taken by members of the court, all dressed in extravagant costumes that no acting company could possibly afford. There was a good deal of dancing, and I saw Their Graces of Roundsilver in the ballet company, masked and enjoying themselves.

The story was an allegory—which made it tedious—and involved the singer Castinatto as the demon Iniquity, who was rejoicing in the fact that he’d succeeded in capturing and imprisoning Virtue and her friends Honor, Purity, and Piety.

Whatever dungeon he’d put them in, it was a place with a lot of music and dancing.

Queen Berlauda played no part in the production other than watching it from her throne and nodding approvingly at the masque’s moral sentiments. The part of Virtue, however, was played by the little princess Floria, who to my surprise sang in a perfectly respectable contralto. Her acting I thought more mannered, for she delivered her moralizing speeches with a serene expression that seemed to combine complacency with self-satisfaction—and then, with a shock, I realized that Floria was doing a perfect imitation of her half sister’s vacant dignity, and doing it right in front of Berlauda and the whole court. At once my gaze snapped to Berlauda, whose expression mirrored that exact lofty self-satisfaction. She seemed perfectly unaware that she was being mocked.

I turned to the rest of the audience, and their expressions were approving when they weren’t completely bored. It seemed the princess and I were sharing a secret.

The masque had turned interesting. I watched till the end, when Virtue and her comrades broke free of the prison and celebrated with a galliard, and I joyously applauded Floria as she took her bow at the end.

* * *

Next day opened with a deer hunt on horseback, with hounds. My limited horsemanship kept me from participating fully—I was always at the rear of the hunt, and quite happy to be there, since the front bristled with reckless spirits and sharp weapons. I avoided the jumps when I could, and when a jump was unavoidable, it was my courser who took me over the jumps rather than the other way around.

The deer hunt was for the most part a masculine pursuit, and most of the ladies remained at the lodge or followed the hunt in carriages. Yet there were women in the hunt, some unknown to me, and another known by sight—the princess Floria, who bent so low over her horse’s neck that her flying dark hair seemed an extension of the animal’s mane. She was so small and light that her steed carried her well to the front, and it was all her two grooms could do to keep up with her.

Nor could they keep her from falling as her courser failed to jump a little creek—Floria’s little form, tucked protectively into a ball, was hurled like a roundshot into a dogwood and produced an explosion of leaves and bright red fruit. My heart gave a leap, and I spurred my horse toward the overthrow. I pulled up at the creek, dismounted, vaulted the obstacle rather better than had Floria’s horse, and found the princess upside down in the bush, her arms flapping as she tried to keep the burly grooms from picking her up and setting her upright.

“Is your highness injured?”

She did not answer but fixed at me with hazel eyes. “Pray leave me alone,” she said. Her words were enunciated with formal clarity. “I’ll get myself out of this.”

Anxiety plucked at my nerves as I watched the princess carefully extricate herself from amid the dogwood’s daggerlike branches. At last she rose teetering on her high-heeled riding boots and plucked twigs and scarlet dogberries from her riding costume. Her tough cheviot skirt had been torn by one of the dogwood’s lances, but her long-sleeved riding jerkin of red leather had protected her from further harm.

She took several breaths before speaking. “Morris,” she said to one of the grooms, “please fetch me my horse.”

“Your highness will continue the hunt?” I asked. She fixed me with a birdlike glance from her hazel eyes.

“It is either that or eat pudding, Master Groom,” she said, “and you have failed to bring the pudding!”

It took me a moment for my mind to shift from that of a reluctant huntsman to Groom of the Pudding, during which time I stood flat-footed as a bumpkin.

“I apologize, your highness,” I managed at last. “The cook has been damnably lax. What sort of pudding does your highness desire?”

“Frumenty!” She snarled the word as the groom arrived with her courser. The second groom bent to catch her foot in his cupped hands, and hurled her up into the seat. As the princess was arranging herself on the side-saddle—petticoats billowed from the slash in her skirt—an open-topped carriage full of ladies drew up. I saw that one of those in the carriage was Floria’s mother, the divorced Queen Natalie, and I bowed.

“Floria, my dear, please be careful!” called Natalie.

“Why?” The princess gathered the reins and answered from over her shoulder. “Berlauda won’t mourn if I break my neck!”

I pondered this truth as Floria rode off, then bowed again to the former Queen and returned to my own horse.

I was well behind the pack, and by the time I caught up, the deer had all been driven into a great pen made of fences, hedges, and nets, all too high for the prey to leap. There were both red deer and fallow deer in the enclosure, and as the stags were all in rut, the air filled with the sound of clashing antlers as they fought each other for possession of the does.

In vain, however, for grooms rode into the pen and carefully separated the females from the males. The does were driven through a gate, down a lane surrounded by high hedges, and into another enclosure, where they would be shot, for the most part by the ladies. The stags, on the other hand, would be despatched by the men with lance and sword.

The does came first, and the Queen fired the first shot standing in her carriage, and dropped a fallow doe to applause and cries of “Well done!” I saw that Broughton was with her in the carriage, and that there was no sign of his viscountess.

There followed a massacre conducted in strict order of precedence, the second shot being taken by Berlauda’s mother, the next by Floria firing her caliver from horseback, and so on. Such women as chose to fire seemed all to be practiced shots. The bracing scent of gunpowder floated free in the air.

I was not bothered by the bloodshed or the butchery, as I had grown up with animals being killed and cut up as a matter of course, and the difference between this and my father’s occupation was one of degree, not intention. Yet in this ritual display that brought all these glittering people to the killing ground, I felt there was more than assuring a supply of meat for the night’s supper. I reflected on how these noble families had gained power, and for the most part it was war, as with Emelin who had slain other kings, or at least some form of combat, as with Roundsilver’s ancestor who slew the dragon. The nobles had achieved preëminence through combat, and this ritual bloodletting wasn’t sport only, but practice for war.

I saw that the Duchess of Roundsilver was readying herself to fire, and I rode to join her indulgent husband, who sat behind her on his horse, which still trembled and sweated from the chase. The duchess fired from on foot, bent over and bracing her silver-chased caliver against the fence, and killed a red doe with a single shot.

“Splendid!” said the duke as he applauded, and turned to me with an expression of blissful happiness. “Is my darling not perfect?” he said. “Hair of gold, skin like cream, the eye of an eagle, and hips just like a boy!”

“It would be improper for me to notice her grace’s hips,” said I, “but your other remarks are more than just.”

When the slaughter was over, an army of Butchers ran into the enclosure to clean the deer and prepare them for the night’s grand supper. The dogs were wild with the excitement of being left the offal. The rest of us went to the other enclosure to view the deaths of the stags.

This was done with less protocol than the shooting—there was no standing on order of precedence, but any gentleman who desired to enter the enclosure and fight a stag was permitted to do so. Most came in on horseback and ran at the stags with a lance, and some with swords; but only a few entered on foot to fight a rutting stag as if in a duel.

Even on horseback, this sport was dangerous. Some of the red deer were larger than ponies, and were far more aggressive, charging and then slashing with their antlers. The blood on the ground did not belong only to the stags. At least twice, horses were bowled over by a charging buck, and their riders extricated only with difficulty by the grooms. One horse was disemboweled and had to be killed. Those who entered on foot with their broadswords fought only the smaller fallow deer, and even so a number of them retired badly cut, either from the antlers or from slashing forefeet. One unlucky baronet was hurled down by a charging deer, knocked unconscious, and trampled. He was dragged from the ring feet-first, and left a red trail on the green grass.

Broughton and the Queen watched from her carriage, their heads together, their words meant only for each other. Across the arena, Floria watched her sister from horseback. I was with the Roundsilvers, and our conversation glided from topic to topic, the hunt and the entertainments and the poems of Rudland.

Again I thought of war, and how this hunt was as close to personal combat as civilized custom would allow. But this hunt was not merely the enacting of a near-martial ritual—it was a rehearsal. For the nation was now at war, and in a matter of months many of these gentlemen would be facing an enemy on the field, an enemy far more dangerous than a fallow deer. Better to learn here to face a foe in the field than to learn it against an enemy host armed for battle.

I watched the fighters with interest. Most provoked the buck into a charge, then leapt to the side and tried a cut to the neck to break the spine. Sometimes this worked, but usually it had to be tried more than once.

Another technique involved diving between the antlers to thrust the sword down between the shoulder blades and thereby reach the heart, or perhaps one of the major arteries. Several tried this, but only one man succeeded, the buck dropping at his feet. All others who tried the technique were hurled to the ground.

The man who triumphed was roundly applauded, and he raised his dripping sword on high in acknowledgement. When he left the enclosure, he ended in my vicinity. He was a tall, burly man only a little older than me. His black riding leathers had fringes, and he wore his long dark hair braided with red grosgrain ribbon. As he cleaned his sword with a cloth, he looked up at me from beneath the brim of his leather hat.

“You are the Pudding-Man, are you not?” said he.

My nerves sang a warning at a glimpse of the predator gazing from his eyes. “My name is Quillifer,” I said.

“Yes. Quillifer the Pudding-Man.” His lip curled beneath his dark clipped beard. He nodded at the enclosure. “Will you take a turn in the ring, and slice something more challenging than syllabub?”

I looked down at him from my horse and considered how best to deal with this rude monster.

“I do not know who I am addressing,” said I.

“I am the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross.” He threw his bloody rag down with an air of contempt, then was handed a sheepskin by a groom, and began polishing his blade with the fleece. His cunning eyes glimmered up at me from beneath the brim of his hat. “What say you, Pudding-Man?” he said. “Will you take a sword into the ring and show that your heart and stomach are not made of blancmange?”

Out of the slant of my eye I could see the duchess looking at me in horror. She gave a little shake of her head, and I responded with a minute twitch of an eyelid to show that I understood, and had no intention of risking myself.

“I am no great hand with a sword,” said I to the lordling—and then, in hopes that I could flatter my way out of this difficulty, I added, “Not like you, with that diving lunge of yours.”

“Ah.” His sheepskin glided along the bright steel. “That’s right, you are a Butcher’s son, are you not? Would you rather do the business with a meat axe?”

Apparently, I had been more discussed at court than I thought, for so much to have reached the ears of some bravo from Mablethorpe Cross, which judging from its lord’s dialect was in the far northwest of the country. I mentally considered a meat axe, and what it would do to the lordling’s skull.

I tried to keep my voice offhand, though my blood was pounding hot in my ears. “You say ‘Butcher’s son,’ ” I said, “as if it were something of which I should be ashamed.”

“Were I a Butcher’s son,” he said, “I would wonder what I was doing here among my betters, and perhaps live ashamed that I had not the proper breeding to grace the court.”

“Perhaps my breeding is insufficient for noble society in Mablethorpe Cross, wherever that might be,” said I, “but I have been welcomed here, by kind friends.” And with that I looked at Their Graces of Roundsilver, both of whom were paying close attention, the duchess pale with concern, and duke looking down, with pursed lips, as if trying to decide how to intervene and when.

“But Butchers,” I continued as I turned to the lordling, “do not ply their trade without payment. You want a stag brought down—very well. What am I offered for this piece of work?”

He looked up at me sharply, his mouth slightly open as if reaching into the air for a word that was not there. Finally he spluttered, “You want to be paid?”

“For my work,” said I. “I am a tradesman, as you insist on pointing out, so therefore let us trade. If you want me to kill an animal for you, you should expect to pay my fee, which will be higher than normal because the work puts me in some danger. So, if you are unwilling to pay the twenty royals . . .”

The lordling turned crimson. “Twenty royals! To a Butcher!”

“You think I would risk my life for white money?” I asked. “Besides, if you find my fees high, you are at liberty to negotiate a lower fee with another.”

“Ridiculous!” he said, and spun on his heel. He went to his horse, mounted, and spurred away, savagely digging silver rowels into the poor beast’s sides. I watched him depart, then turned to the duchess.

“Thank you for your concern and good advice,” I said.

Her lips were narrow and tight. “I’m glad you escaped hazard. I wonder if that man is mad.”

“I would not have fought a buck hand-to-hand,” I said. “There was no danger of that—and as for the insults, I should probably grow used to them.”

We continued watching the combats, and I was very surprised, ten minutes later, to see the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross gallop to my side, draw rein, and hold out a purse.

“Here’s twenty royals for you, Pudding-Man! Let’s see you kill a stag for me!”

I took the purse while I considered a response, and saw in the bag enough silver crowns and half-royals to make up the fee I’d quoted. I held the heavy purse in my palm, and it felt as heavy as a tombstone.

“D’you lack a sword, Pudding-Man?” asked the lordling. “I brought a spare.”

I turned and handed the purse to the duchess. “Her grace can hold my money,” I said.

“Quillifer,” said her grace. Her blue eyes were wide. “You may not do this.”

I gave her what I hoped was a confident, confiding smile. “Fear not, your grace. I am not unskilled.”

I turned back to the lordling and saw him offering a sword. “I’ll take one of those spears instead,” said I.

My heart was racing in my chest as I slipped from my saddle and went to the group of gentlemen clustering about the gate. They had all taken at least one run against the deer, and I was able to borrow one of their lances. I chose the shortest one I could find, eight feet or so of straight ash, with a stout triangular blade that would not easily snap. I would have preferred a haft shorter still, about my height, which was the length of the pollaxe to which I had become accustomed.

I hadn’t been lying when I assured the duchess of my skills. During the course of my apprenticeship with my father, I had killed hundreds of cattle with the pollaxe.

A pollaxe has a spike on either end, as well as an axe-blade backed either with a hammer or with another spike. The axe-blade can be used from the flank to cut the animal’s spine, or to cut its throat from below if you do not mind wasting the blood. But by far the best way to kill a cow is from the front, by using the weapon like a spear and driving the spike through the animal’s forehead and into the brain. The animal drops in its tracks and does not suffer, and the animal’s heart will continue to beat for a while so the blood may be recovered and used in cooking.

While I had never killed a stag this way, hunters had brought deer into my father’s shop, and there I had butchered them enough to understand their anatomy. The brain was more or less where I would have expected it to be, and the skull was if anything more delicate than that of a cow.

There were some other gentlemen ahead of me, so I waited for them to take their turn while I studied their encounters, and particularly the way that the stags attacked and the best way to avoid their charge. Thus it was that I failed to notice that the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross had entered the ring ahead of me, and had some speech with the grooms who organized the fights, and very likely bribed them.

For when I entered the enclosure, grinning grooms on horseback cut out from the mass not a fallow deer, but a red buck—and not just any red buck, but the largest of all, what is called a “hart of ten,” with a great complicated thicket of antler dripping with torn velvet, like old trees laden with moss. All ten daggerlike points were brandished toward me, and bore a reddish color, like old blood. A thick dark mane wrapped the animal’s neck, and its eyes rolled with mixed terror and aggression. A guttural roaring was already sounding from its throat.

This beast came trotting toward me, and it seemed as big as a horse. My heart leaped into my throat while my hands tightened on the spear. I held the weapon over my right shoulder, as if intending to throw it, with the point dropping slightly toward the target, the same posture adopted when killing cattle with the pollaxe.

It occurred to me, far too late, that when I killed a cow in this way, there were generally a couple burly journeymen holding the animal still.

“That’s the way, Pudding-Man!” called the lordling. “Earn your fee, now!” His voice was full of self-approval, and caused a stir of laughter in his audience.

The enclosure reeked of blood and the rut of the stags. Somehow, I managed to make my feet move, and I moved toward the hart in a shuffling glide without my feet ever quite leaving the ground. I was having a hard time catching my breath, and was almost panting for air. My head swam. I tried to measure the distance between the spear point and the animal’s forehead.

When the stag charged, it caught me by surprise, for it didn’t attack with head lowered, but rather reared up on its hind legs, hopping forward while slashing with its forefeet. I was so startled by this assault that I failed to realize that I could thrust for the animal’s throat, and by the time the thought occurred to me it was too late, for the flying hooves had batted the spear out of the way. I bolted and ran madly to the side, dragging the spear along the ground, to the laughter both of the lordling and his claque.

I gathered myself again and readied my spear. My heart was leaping wildly against my ribs, and I clenched my fists on the ash spear to keep them from trembling. The animal’s eyes had followed me, but on its hind legs, the hart couldn’t turn fast enough to spin and charge, and so it dropped to all fours again and turned to face me, bellowing. Behind the hart I could see the faces of onlookers, the Queen as impassive as ever, Floria with keen-eyed interest, and the duchess pale with fright.

The stag’s war cry came to an end, dying as an echo among the trees. We regarded each other for a brief moment at a distance of about five yards, and then the great hart lowered its head and charged. I marked my target and lunged forward, putting as much of my weight into the spear as I could.

The impact knocked me back six or ten feet. My teeth clacked together and my eyes lost all focus, but I managed to retain my feet and my spear, and it took me a second or two to recover and realize that the spear dripped blood and that the great hart had fallen to the turf with a three-sided hole in its forehead.

Shouts and cheers went up. My knees felt suddenly weak, and I lowered the butt of the spear to the ground and leaned on it for a moment while I caught my breath. Then a surge of triumph went through me, and I raised a hand to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd.

I returned the spear to its owner and accepted congratulations from the gentlemen clustered around the gate. None had ever seen a stag despatched in that way, and they thought it a novelty. “What call you that strike?” asked one.

“I don’t know that it has a name,” I said.

“The coup de Quillifer,” one admirer suggested, and I graciously allowed that this name might serve.

By and by, I rejoined my horse, which had been held for me by one of the Roundsilver grooms. Her grace had been joined by her husband, who gave me a speculative look. I believe I had succeeded in surprising him. I reclaimed my purse of twenty royals.

“I feel as if I’ve earned it,” I said, and grinned, and then my grin broadened as I saw their graces looking at me with identical expressions, brows furrowed, lips pursed in concern.

“Quillifer,” said the duchess, “you must promise me you will never do such a thing ever again.”

I laughed. “It is an easy promise to make.”

Her look was unsmiling, her blue eyes shards of ice. “Make me that promise, then.”

Her stern tone caught me by surprise. She had been so gracious and kind to me that I had never seen her in her more formal style as a high noble and relative of the Queen, born a member of a conquering dynasty bred to command. That I towered over her, or that we were of an age, now scarcely seemed to matter. At her tone I found myself straightening in the saddle, as if in response to an order. Yet despite her severity I found myself flooded with warmth at the realization that she—and the duke, I hoped—cared whether I prospered or failed, lived or died. Cared enough to extract this promise from me.

I took off my cap and held it over my heart. “I shall obey, madame,” I said. “I promise never to fight another stag, on foot or on horse, without your grace’s express permission.”

“Which I shall not give,” said the duchess.

“That’s as your grace pleases.”

Her look softened. “You have work to do here and in Ethlebight,” she said. “You must not throw your life away.”

I put on my cap. “Your grace places a higher value on my life than I, and therefore I shall strive to live up to your expectations, and not my own.”

I turned at a gasp from the crowd. One of the hunters had attempted the coup de Quillifer with a lance against a fallow deer, and been knocked sprawling for his pains.

I watched for a while longer, and accepted a congratulation or two from a well-wisher, and then I had an idea how best to end the morning. I excused myself, rode to the stables, and groomed my horse after its adventures. After which I went to the kitchens.

For the most part the cooking was done out-of-doors, the spits turning over great fire pits built on one side of the old lodge while a hundred servants labored over the preparations. I found the appropriate cook, a tall Aekoi who spoke in the accent of Loretto, and managed to bribe her to produce a pair of frumenty puddings.

Frumenty is traditional with venison, of course, but the venison would not be roasted till supper, where it was planned for frumenty to be served as a pottage alongside the meat. Yet all the ingredients were there, the cracked wheat and so on, and while my dishes were being prepared, I went to my room, changed out of my riding leathers, and washed as much as a pitcher of water permitted. I donned my sober brown suit and went looking for some footmen to bribe.

Two hours later, and the day being fine, the entire company had sat down to a banquet out-of-doors, on the lawn between the lodge and the lake. Tables were set up in a U shape with the Queen and high nobles gracing a raised platform on the end. Berlauda presided from one of her thrones, and a boys’ choir from one of capital’s monasteries sang morally improving songs in a complex polyphony. I claimed a seat among the actors and musicians, drank half a cup of excellent wine, then rose and brought in the footmen I’d paid to undertake a special task.

I donned my pompous-magistrate face and we marched up the sward to the platform where the royal family sat, Berlauda and her throne at the center. I was aware of the Marchioness of Stayne, near the head of the company, watching me with her long eyes and a frown on her lips. I knelt to the Queen, or perhaps more properly to her throne of majesty, and then rose and brought a groom forward with a covered dish, which he presented to the princess Floria. With a flourish I removed the chased silver cover, and revealed there a frumenty that formed a perfect hemisphere, made with eggs, sugar, and saffron, dotted with almonds, and scented with orange water.

“Your pudding, highness,” I said. “May I give you some?”

Floria seemed too surprised to reply, so I took a spoon and put a generous sample of the pudding into a dish. I laid the dish before the princess, and found her studying me with her sparrow’s eyes.

“You’re lucky I didn’t ask you for a mess of larks’ tongues,” she said.

“Surely, there are tongues enough buzzing about the court,” said I.

“Pity they’re not all in aspic,” said Floria.

The Queen turned her bland countenance upon me. “Lord Quillifer,” said she, “what is this business with the frumenty? We thought the frumenty was to be served tonight.”

It occurred to me that perhaps I had committed an error of protocol by failing to serve the Queen first. I turned to her at once and bowed.

“The frumenty will be served with the venison tonight,” I said. “But this morning, during the hunt, her highness asked me for a frumenty. While I thought she most likely spoke in jest, I did not wish to cause any offense by failing to act upon her wishes, and so I have procured the dish.” I offered the dish to the Queen. “Does your majesty desire me to serve you?”

“Thank you,” said she. “We do.”

But then her mother, who sat beside her, put a hand on her arm and said in an urgent whisper, “Remember the Yeoman Pregustator!” Who was the unfortunate man assigned to taste the royal dishes, and therefore the first to be blasted by any poison.

On hearing this advice Berlauda reconsidered, and shook her head. “We think we shall not have the frumenty after all.”

“As your majesty wishes,” said I.

She raised a hand to dismiss me, then lowered it. “We saw you strike down the hart this morning,” she said. “Your blow was most original. We wondered if it has a name.”

“I have no name for it,” said I, “but I heard others refer to the coup de Quillifer.”

A faint smile drifted across the Queen’s face. “That is appropriate,” she said. “We approve.”

Again her mother touched her on the arm, and whispered something in her ear. Berlauda’s faint smile turned to a faint frown.

“I am told that we have addressed you incorrectly,” she said. “That you are not entitled to the appellation of ‘lord.’ ”

“I did not wish to correct your majesty,” said I, “on such a trivial matter.”

The Queen’s expression suggested that whether a man was noble or not was not a trivial matter to her, but she said nothing more and dismissed me. I knelt again, and then I and the footmen retired to collect my second pudding. This I delivered to my Lord of Mablethorpe Cross, who sat at a bench with some of his cronies.

“Compliments of the Pudding-Man,” said I. “I urge you to eat it all, for you have assuredly paid greatly for it.”

He glared at me, but his friends thought this a capital jest, and were repeating it loudly as I retired.

I resumed my seat, and ate my dinner with great pleasure.