your squire would join us at dinner, Sir Dalbry?”
“We would be honored, Your Majesty.”
Mother Singra, the ancient nursemaid, turned and shuffled at the speed of a glacier out of the throne room. “I will see that two more places are set.”
By now, with most of their durbins spent, neither of them would turn down a large meal. Cullin planned to squirrel away enough food to keep Reeger happy. More importantly, he was glad for the chance to keep making eyes at Princess Affonyl, in hopes that she would ignore him again to show how much she cared.
As Cullin and Dalbry washed themselves in the courtyard using water from a bucket, the older knight gave him a curious look. “What was all that about? You’ve never shown interest in marrying a princess before.”
“You and Reeger taught me to be ambitious.” Cullin splashed water on his face. “I, um, was hoping I could be the one to slay the dragon this time and earn my chops, present the head to King Norrimun.”
Dalbry’s gray eyebrows shot up as he understood. “You think the princess is pretty!”
“And she likes me, too—I can tell by the cute way she ignored me. Think about it. If I marry the princess, then we have Norrimun’s kingdom. I’ll live in the castle, and I can hire you to be my number one knight.”
“And what about Reeger?”
“Oh, he’ll be number two.”
“Reeger’s not a knight and could never pass for one.”
Cullin shook his head. “Not my number two knight, just number two . We could set him up with his own tavern like he always talks about.”
“An interesting scheme, though I wish you’d consulted me about it first.”
“It just came to me. I had to improvise.”
Dalbry clapped his hand on Cullin’s shoulder. “Well, nothing to be ashamed of—it showed initiative, but in this particular case it won’t do us any good. King Norrimun seems to be fond of the coins in his treasury or all too aware of how little money he has.” He made a slow turn so Cullin could inspect him. “How do I look? Good enough for the evening’s feast?”
“Dashing as always, Sir Dalbry. And what about me?” He ran his hands through his hair, brushed the dust off his tunic.
“You look like a scamp, and you need a haircut.”
“I’m aiming for the roguish look,” Cullin said. “Girls like the bad boys.”
“Good luck with that, lad, but the princess looks to be all finery and lace, cats and embroidery. I doubt she’d know what to do out on her own.”
The banquet hall was full of noise, people, and food. Sir Tremayne had joined the crowd, dazzling in his flexible polished armor, his white-and-indigo cape, and features too handsome to be rendered properly by the crude artistic techniques of the period.
Tremayne seemed displeased with the interloper Dalbry, but the two knights no longer had to consider each other competition, since Sir Phineal was assigned the task of slaying the nonexistent dragon. Cullin thought that with enough continued depredations, set up by Reeger, the corpulent king would have no choice but to reconsider hiring a professional dragon slayer and his apprentice.
For the feast, a roast pig sprawled on the table with a potato in its mouth (because apples were out of season). A roast goose accompanied the pig on its own platter, and the two eyeless heads looked forlorn, as if wondering how they had ended up there. Squash and bread and tarts completed the feast—at least this course.
Princess Affonyl looked cool and bored at the banquet table. At her left sat a dark-haired, mustachioed lord with long hair tied in a ponytail and a heavy gold chain at his throat, his shirt unlaced to show off his wiry dark chest hair.
Sir Phineal had been served hunks of meat, but ate little. King Norrimun noticed. “You’ve barely touched your food—eat up! You need your strength. Dragon slaying is a hard business.”
“I—I feel ill, Sire. Perhaps I need a few days of b-bed rest.”
“Nonsense, there’s a dragon
“We would be honored, Your Majesty.”
Mother Singra, the ancient nursemaid, turned and shuffled at the speed of a glacier out of the throne room. “I will see that two more places are set.”
By now, with most of their durbins spent, neither of them would turn down a large meal. Cullin planned to squirrel away enough food to keep Reeger happy. More importantly, he was glad for the chance to keep making eyes at Princess Affonyl, in hopes that she would ignore him again to show how much she cared.
As Cullin and Dalbry washed themselves in the courtyard using water from a bucket, the older knight gave him a curious look. “What was all that about? You’ve never shown interest in marrying a princess before.”
“You and Reeger taught me to be ambitious.” Cullin splashed water on his face. “I, um, was hoping I could be the one to slay the dragon this time and earn my chops, present the head to King Norrimun.”
Dalbry’s gray eyebrows shot up as he understood. “You think the princess is pretty!”
“And she likes me, too—I can tell by the cute way she ignored me. Think about it. If I marry the princess, then we have Norrimun’s kingdom. I’ll live in the castle, and I can hire you to be my number one knight.”
“And what about Reeger?”
“Oh, he’ll be number two.”
“Reeger’s not a knight and could never pass for one.”
Cullin shook his head. “Not my number two knight, just number two . We could set him up with his own tavern like he always talks about.”
“An interesting scheme, though I wish you’d consulted me about it first.”
“It just came to me. I had to improvise.”
Dalbry clapped his hand on Cullin’s shoulder. “Well, nothing to be ashamed of—it showed initiative, but in this particular case it won’t do us any good. King Norrimun seems to be fond of the coins in his treasury or all too aware of how little money he has.” He made a slow turn so Cullin could inspect him. “How do I look? Good enough for the evening’s feast?”
“Dashing as always, Sir Dalbry. And what about me?” He ran his hands through his hair, brushed the dust off his tunic.
“You look like a scamp, and you need a haircut.”
“I’m aiming for the roguish look,” Cullin said. “Girls like the bad boys.”
“Good luck with that, lad, but the princess looks to be all finery and lace, cats and embroidery. I doubt she’d know what to do out on her own.”
The banquet hall was full of noise, people, and food. Sir Tremayne had joined the crowd, dazzling in his flexible polished armor, his white-and-indigo cape, and features too handsome to be rendered properly by the crude artistic techniques of the period.
Tremayne seemed displeased with the interloper Dalbry, but the two knights no longer had to consider each other competition, since Sir Phineal was assigned the task of slaying the nonexistent dragon. Cullin thought that with enough continued depredations, set up by Reeger, the corpulent king would have no choice but to reconsider hiring a professional dragon slayer and his apprentice.
For the feast, a roast pig sprawled on the table with a potato in its mouth (because apples were out of season). A roast goose accompanied the pig on its own platter, and the two eyeless heads looked forlorn, as if wondering how they had ended up there. Squash and bread and tarts completed the feast—at least this course.
Princess Affonyl looked cool and bored at the banquet table. At her left sat a dark-haired, mustachioed lord with long hair tied in a ponytail and a heavy gold chain at his throat, his shirt unlaced to show off his wiry dark chest hair.
Sir Phineal had been served hunks of meat, but ate little. King Norrimun noticed. “You’ve barely touched your food—eat up! You need your strength. Dragon slaying is a hard business.”
“I—I feel ill, Sire. Perhaps I need a few days of b-bed rest.”
“Nonsense, there’s a dragon
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