caught. I was wrong to send you out
into
the world. You're not ready. This is a
fine kettle of birds of a feather you've
gotten yourself into. Come home right
now. Yours, Edric
He almost laughed. He could tell from the handwriting that Ed had been hopping up and down as he wrote. It gave him a queer feeling to know that Ed had been watching him through the telescope the same way he himself had watched Princess Marigold.
The birds wouldn't leave until they had an answer to Ed's message, and besides, he needed to tell Ed what was going on here, and to get some advice. The story was so complicated it would take several trips back and forth across the river to get it all told.
Now, where was he going to find writing materials when so few servants knew how to read and write? He'd have to filch some, that's all. But first he'd have to find where to filch them from.
"You stay here," he said to the pigeons. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
He ran down the steps into the castle without any idea of where he was going. He headed down the first hallway he came to, gingerly opening doors and peeking inside. This seemed to be a floor of bedrooms, mostly unoccupied, though he did come upon several people napping, and one tableau of a young man kneeling at a young woman's feet. They both were weeping, and turned wet, startled faces to him as he hastily backed away saying, "Pardon. Pardon. Wrong room."
At the end of the hall was a large room with books enclosed behind glass doors on all four walls. A writing table with ornately carved legs stood in the center of the room, well-stocked with pens, ink, and writing paper. Christian knew he couldn't stand there writing for as long as his tale would take to explain, so he stuffed paper and writing implements into the pockets of his apron. Walking quickly but carefully, so as not to spill the ink, he made it back to the terrace.
He constructed a little barricade of chairs where he was supposed to be working and settled down to scratch out the story for Ed. The pigeons cooed impatiently as they paced along the wall. They'd gotten
used to the grain Marigold gave them when they came calling at the castle before, and were quite put out to see that Christian wasn't providing the same treat.
Finally he squeezed what he'd written so far into their message cylinders and sent them back across the river while he continued telling all that he knew about the castle intrigues, three lines at a time.
And every time Walter and Carrie flew across the river, Rollo, watching from up in the barbican, kept track.
T HAT EVENING Christian was again in charge of the wine at dinner. Prince Cyprian's retinue made the most of their final banquet, swilling and chomping as if it would be their last meal on earth. Prince Cyprian was having such a grand old time, singing and pinching the serving wenches, that anyone who was paying attentionâand Marigold wasâcould see that he had no regrets.
Swithbert bumbled along having his usual good time, though Christian now knew that the gleam in his eyes came not entirely from the rheuminess of age. The gleam came also from the intelligence and lucidity of a king who might be old and infirm but had lost none of his faculties.
As for Sir Magnus, he was enjoying his peacock
pie and suet pudding with marmalade as if he were already the royal consort.
In the middle of dinner, Queen Olympia stood and banged on her glass with her spoon. In the general din of the extravaganza of eating, the diners didn't even hear her. She tried a few more times without success and then motioned one of the fanfare trumpeters over. A moment later a blast from his instrument stopped everyone, midslurp, midcrunch, or midword.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Olympia said, "and the rest of you, too." She waved her hands to indicate most of the guests. "My husband has an announcement to make." She nodded in King Swithbert's direction.
The king stood, looked around in a bemused manner, and
into
the world. You're not ready. This is a
fine kettle of birds of a feather you've
gotten yourself into. Come home right
now. Yours, Edric
He almost laughed. He could tell from the handwriting that Ed had been hopping up and down as he wrote. It gave him a queer feeling to know that Ed had been watching him through the telescope the same way he himself had watched Princess Marigold.
The birds wouldn't leave until they had an answer to Ed's message, and besides, he needed to tell Ed what was going on here, and to get some advice. The story was so complicated it would take several trips back and forth across the river to get it all told.
Now, where was he going to find writing materials when so few servants knew how to read and write? He'd have to filch some, that's all. But first he'd have to find where to filch them from.
"You stay here," he said to the pigeons. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
He ran down the steps into the castle without any idea of where he was going. He headed down the first hallway he came to, gingerly opening doors and peeking inside. This seemed to be a floor of bedrooms, mostly unoccupied, though he did come upon several people napping, and one tableau of a young man kneeling at a young woman's feet. They both were weeping, and turned wet, startled faces to him as he hastily backed away saying, "Pardon. Pardon. Wrong room."
At the end of the hall was a large room with books enclosed behind glass doors on all four walls. A writing table with ornately carved legs stood in the center of the room, well-stocked with pens, ink, and writing paper. Christian knew he couldn't stand there writing for as long as his tale would take to explain, so he stuffed paper and writing implements into the pockets of his apron. Walking quickly but carefully, so as not to spill the ink, he made it back to the terrace.
He constructed a little barricade of chairs where he was supposed to be working and settled down to scratch out the story for Ed. The pigeons cooed impatiently as they paced along the wall. They'd gotten
used to the grain Marigold gave them when they came calling at the castle before, and were quite put out to see that Christian wasn't providing the same treat.
Finally he squeezed what he'd written so far into their message cylinders and sent them back across the river while he continued telling all that he knew about the castle intrigues, three lines at a time.
And every time Walter and Carrie flew across the river, Rollo, watching from up in the barbican, kept track.
T HAT EVENING Christian was again in charge of the wine at dinner. Prince Cyprian's retinue made the most of their final banquet, swilling and chomping as if it would be their last meal on earth. Prince Cyprian was having such a grand old time, singing and pinching the serving wenches, that anyone who was paying attentionâand Marigold wasâcould see that he had no regrets.
Swithbert bumbled along having his usual good time, though Christian now knew that the gleam in his eyes came not entirely from the rheuminess of age. The gleam came also from the intelligence and lucidity of a king who might be old and infirm but had lost none of his faculties.
As for Sir Magnus, he was enjoying his peacock
pie and suet pudding with marmalade as if he were already the royal consort.
In the middle of dinner, Queen Olympia stood and banged on her glass with her spoon. In the general din of the extravaganza of eating, the diners didn't even hear her. She tried a few more times without success and then motioned one of the fanfare trumpeters over. A moment later a blast from his instrument stopped everyone, midslurp, midcrunch, or midword.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Olympia said, "and the rest of you, too." She waved her hands to indicate most of the guests. "My husband has an announcement to make." She nodded in King Swithbert's direction.
The king stood, looked around in a bemused manner, and
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