hairdo was decorated with shimmering plumes.
“Tell me, what is a witan doing at a licentious revelry such as this?”
The voice behind him did not belong to anyone he knew, but he didn’t need a name to realise he was being mocked. He turned, and found himself looking up into the tanned features of a lean but well-muscled man who was taller than him by a hand span, and older by ten years or so. He was definitely dressed like a parrot, with a heavily embroidered doublet, sleeves trimmed with lace cuffs, velvet pantaloons, and numerous items of ostentatious jewellery scattered about his person.
The twinkle in his eyes as he raised his wine goblet to his lips told Saker the mockery was possibly more friendly than otherwise, but before he could decide, the man continued, “Don’t tell me you are here to chastise us for our extravagance and wanton behaviour, because I’m sure you’d have no success. And I would be forced to mock you with my sharp wit.”
“I’m sure I have far too much sense to try,” Saker replied, “even if it was my inclination. Perhaps my gloomy plumage deceives you.”
“Hmm. The garb
is
somewhat sober. Or do I mean sombre? Forgive me, I have imbibed too much wine. A poor habit of mine when on shore.”
“May I ask which neither sober nor sombre courtier I have the pleasure of addressing?”
The man grinned at him and sketched an extravagant bow. “At last! A cleric with a sense of humour. We have need of such. Lord Juster Dornbeck, younger son of an obscure family, ne’er-do-well on land, successful privateer on the high seas, trader to Karradar in the Summer Seas. At your service.”
“I assure you, my lord, being a cleric does not necessarily preclude possession of a sense of humour. My name is Saker Rampion. I am the recently appointed spiritual adviser to the Prince and Princess.”
Lord Juster threw back his head and roared with laughter. When he’d finished wiping the tears from his eyes, he said, “I wish you luck with that, witan.” He leaned closer, lowered his voice and added, “The Prince has few interests outside horseflesh, hounds and light-skirt wantons. He has to be dragged to the chapel on holy days.”
Taken aback by the candour, he said nothing.
“The Lady Mathilda on the other hand,” Lord Juster continued, “appears pious. Intelligent and well read, but cunning and conniving, too, for that is the only way a maiden has power in a man’s world. You may have met your match in the pair of them.”
“And to think that I thought a year or two at court would be boring! Why, already I have met an interesting nobleman who must be foolishly in his cups, if he is bold enough to make personal remarks about the royal family to a complete stranger.”
“Ah, a riposting cleric! But I’ve not said anything that is not known to the entire court, including His Majesty the King. Have you met your charges yet?”
“Not yet. I thought it would be easy, but they always seem to have something else to do. I know the Prince is not here tonight.”
Juster glanced around. “He’s more likely to be out carousing with some of his young courtier friends. The Princess, however, is yonder, the lovely fair-haired lass in the blue dress surrounded by her gaggle of nattering ladies.”
He turned to look in the direction Juster indicated. At first, all he saw was a dozen women, varying in age from twenty or so up to fifty, dressed in gowns with absurd skirts too large to pass freely through a doorway. Then, in the middle, he saw her, clad in a less ornate style. More a neatly elegant bluebird than a Pashali parrot. The blue of her kirtle repeated the blue of her eyes, and her featherless snood did not quite cover a head of fair curls. She was laughing, her eyes dancing with amusement.
His heart lurched up into his throat.
That
was the Lady Mathilda? Fobbing damn, but she was the loveliest woman he’d seen all evening, a waft of fresh air amidst all the pomp and
“Tell me, what is a witan doing at a licentious revelry such as this?”
The voice behind him did not belong to anyone he knew, but he didn’t need a name to realise he was being mocked. He turned, and found himself looking up into the tanned features of a lean but well-muscled man who was taller than him by a hand span, and older by ten years or so. He was definitely dressed like a parrot, with a heavily embroidered doublet, sleeves trimmed with lace cuffs, velvet pantaloons, and numerous items of ostentatious jewellery scattered about his person.
The twinkle in his eyes as he raised his wine goblet to his lips told Saker the mockery was possibly more friendly than otherwise, but before he could decide, the man continued, “Don’t tell me you are here to chastise us for our extravagance and wanton behaviour, because I’m sure you’d have no success. And I would be forced to mock you with my sharp wit.”
“I’m sure I have far too much sense to try,” Saker replied, “even if it was my inclination. Perhaps my gloomy plumage deceives you.”
“Hmm. The garb
is
somewhat sober. Or do I mean sombre? Forgive me, I have imbibed too much wine. A poor habit of mine when on shore.”
“May I ask which neither sober nor sombre courtier I have the pleasure of addressing?”
The man grinned at him and sketched an extravagant bow. “At last! A cleric with a sense of humour. We have need of such. Lord Juster Dornbeck, younger son of an obscure family, ne’er-do-well on land, successful privateer on the high seas, trader to Karradar in the Summer Seas. At your service.”
“I assure you, my lord, being a cleric does not necessarily preclude possession of a sense of humour. My name is Saker Rampion. I am the recently appointed spiritual adviser to the Prince and Princess.”
Lord Juster threw back his head and roared with laughter. When he’d finished wiping the tears from his eyes, he said, “I wish you luck with that, witan.” He leaned closer, lowered his voice and added, “The Prince has few interests outside horseflesh, hounds and light-skirt wantons. He has to be dragged to the chapel on holy days.”
Taken aback by the candour, he said nothing.
“The Lady Mathilda on the other hand,” Lord Juster continued, “appears pious. Intelligent and well read, but cunning and conniving, too, for that is the only way a maiden has power in a man’s world. You may have met your match in the pair of them.”
“And to think that I thought a year or two at court would be boring! Why, already I have met an interesting nobleman who must be foolishly in his cups, if he is bold enough to make personal remarks about the royal family to a complete stranger.”
“Ah, a riposting cleric! But I’ve not said anything that is not known to the entire court, including His Majesty the King. Have you met your charges yet?”
“Not yet. I thought it would be easy, but they always seem to have something else to do. I know the Prince is not here tonight.”
Juster glanced around. “He’s more likely to be out carousing with some of his young courtier friends. The Princess, however, is yonder, the lovely fair-haired lass in the blue dress surrounded by her gaggle of nattering ladies.”
He turned to look in the direction Juster indicated. At first, all he saw was a dozen women, varying in age from twenty or so up to fifty, dressed in gowns with absurd skirts too large to pass freely through a doorway. Then, in the middle, he saw her, clad in a less ornate style. More a neatly elegant bluebird than a Pashali parrot. The blue of her kirtle repeated the blue of her eyes, and her featherless snood did not quite cover a head of fair curls. She was laughing, her eyes dancing with amusement.
His heart lurched up into his throat.
That
was the Lady Mathilda? Fobbing damn, but she was the loveliest woman he’d seen all evening, a waft of fresh air amidst all the pomp and
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