Sylva giggled, taking the sprig from him and snipping off the thorns with a little pair of scissors.
“Folly, lolly, lolly-” sang Trent, picking up two more sprigs by their stems and making them dance on the tabletop.
The girls laughed, and Trent kept them laughing until they’d finished their regalia. Then Sylva made him try it on, and he struck a royal pose, the cape lightly draping his shoulders, holly forming a halo around his head.
“I hereby decree that mistletoe shall hang in every doorway, and anyone who doesn’t smile shall be sent to the kitchens to wash the dishes,” he pronounced.
“Paethor, be warned!” said Elian, taking back the cape. “Come, Sylva. It’s late, and we still have your dress to trim.”
Sylva reached for the crown and Trent gave it to her, lifting her hand to his lips. She smiled coyly at him, picked up a leftover sprig of holly and stood on tiptoe to tuck it behind his ear. Then she and Mari tossed all their odds and ends into a large basket and ran to the door where Elian waited. “Thank you for your help, my Lord,” she said. “We’ll see you this evening.”
Trent bowed and watched them go, then grinned to himself and made his way back to his chamber. When he opened the door he surprised Echevarian and Paethor, standing with swords drawn in a space cleared in the middle of the floor.
“Come in, close the door,” said Echevarian, beckoning.
Trent did so and leaned against it. “Funny place to practice sword-play,” he said. “Funny time for it, too.”
“Echevarian was just showing me a thrust,” said Paethor. He hefted Wayfinder and swung it back and forth a couple of times to feel its weight, then made a feinting thrust toward Echevarian, who parried and nodded.
“Expecting trouble?” asked Trent.
“No,” said Echevarian. “Just being prepared.”
Paethor sheathed the Sword, walked over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.
“Well, that’s not what you need to prepare,” said Trent. “For tonight you need to brush up your dancing and your wit.”
“I take it that’s what you’ve been doing,” said Echevarian.
“I,” said Trent, strolling to his baggage and poking through it, “have been entertaining the young ladies. One of them will choose the Lord of Misrule-only here it’s the Holly King. I did my best to charm them. Have to, considering the competition!” He shot a grinning glance at Paethor but got no response, Paethor being absorbed in stirring the ashes on the hearth with his toe. Trent shrugged, found his drinking horn and reached for his wineskin.
“Wasn’t the mead good enough?” asked Echevarian.
“Yes, but I’m almost sober again,” said Trent, filling his horn.
“Sober might not be a bad idea.”
Trent glanced up. “You are expecting trouble,” he said, looking from Echevarian to Paethor. “What’s happened?”
The others exchanged a glance, then Paethor said, “We saw a-a messenger.”
“A talking owl,” added Echevarian. “It mistook me for Carcham.”
“What did it say?” asked Trent.
“I didn’t hear the message. It flew away.”
“News from the south,” said Trent. “Damn! I wish you’d heard it.”
“So we’d better be on guard tonight,” said Echevarian, taking up the wineskin. “Let’s give this to the squire. A Yule gift.”
“That’s all we have left,” protested Trent. “That’s our luck for the way home!”
“Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘Share your luck and double it’?” said Echevarian.
Trent sighed. “All right,” he said, lifting his horn. “Here’s good fortune to us.” He sipped and handed the horn to Echevarian, who took a swallow. Trent carried the wine to Paethor. “Some luck for you?” he offered.
Paethor’s face softened into a wistful smile. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the cup. “I suppose I need all I can get.”
Shadows lengthened as the shortest day of the year came to a close. Inside the Lodge torches were lit, fire blazed on the great hearth, and fresh candles glowed in all the sconces. Tables laden with food lined the east wall of the Hall, and valley-folk, all in their holiday best, thronged in. The three lords, dressed again in court clothes and each wearing his weapon, entered the Hall to find it already crowded. A trio of musicians sat in the south gallery, blaring away. In the little room under the stairs a group of young men were playing spinnikens, their occasional roar attesting to another victory. The squire bustled up, saying “Welcome, my lords, welcome! Merry Yule!”
“Merry Yule, Squire Fuller,” said Echevarian, bowing. “Here’s a small gift from the three of us.” He handed the wineskin to the squire.
“It’s wine from the King’s cellars,” added Trent. “His Majesty’s best.”
“Ho! Well, I’ll put it away, or it’ll be gone before I get a taste of it. Thank you, m’lords! Help yourselves to supper-no sitting down at table, I’m afraid, in this crowd.” He waved them toward the food, and hurried away with the wineskin under his arm.
The lords took up plates and piled them with good, hearty fare. The valley-folk had brought out their best treasures, and besides the huge mounds of bread, meat, and cheese there were dishes of pickled vegetables, candied fruits, and even a steaming bowl of carrots that had been dug from the frozen ground that morning. The lords carried their supper to chairs along the south wall and sat watching the revelers. Baron Carcham came out of the gaming-room carrying a bulging pouch. He tossed it in one hand and the heavy chink of coins was heard. Carcham’s tunic was scarlet and black, and he wore a wolf-pelt over his shoulders and heavy bronze bracelets at his wrists. He paused before Paethor’s chair, a slow, unpleasant smile sliding onto his face as he glanced at Wayfinder.
“Good evening, your Excellency,” said Paethor.
Carcham nodded, tucking the pouch into his belt, but his answer was stopped by a cheer that went up as the squire returned with his ladies. Sylva danced in on his arm, wearing a gown of deep burgundy trimmed across the shoulders with soft, white fur. A spray of holly berries was pinned to the trim, blood-red drops against the snowy white; winter colors. Her eyes were alight with festival fire, and the laughter on her lips enhanced her loveliness.
Mari, escorted by her cousin Damon, looked festive as well, chestnut curls glowing against her gold satin dress. Elian followed them, her fair tresses forming a pale waterfall over blue velvet. The squire, bellowing greetings, led them forward to meet the valley people. Carcham strode up to them, the crowd parting before him, and bowed over Sylva’s hand. She beamed and curtsied, and let him lead her to the feast-table. The squire clapped his hands, the musicians blew a fanfare, and the chattering fell to a murmur.
“Welcome, good friends,” shouted the squire. “I wish you all a Happy Yule!” He waited for the answering cheer to subside. “There’s food and drink for all, and dancing afterward-” Here another cheer stopped him and he waved his hands for quiet. “But first, the Yule Cake!” A roar went up from the crowd as a servant brought out a great round platter on which lay a golden cake. All the young girls came forward to take some. Baron Carcham led Sylva up to the platter, holding her right hand close to his side as she chose a piece. There was a moment’s hush as the young girls, colorful as a flock of summer birds, gobbled their cake eagerly. Then a cry went up and Sylva skipped into the center of the room, holding one hand aloft and still chewing, her eyes gleeful. “The bean, the bean!” yelled the crowd, applauding.
“Come on,” said Trent, urging his companions to set aside their empty plates. A circle was forming around Sylva, this time of young men.
“You go,” said Echevarian. “We’ll watch.”
“No,” said Trent, grabbing him and Paethor by the hands, “I need you to remind them we’re glorious lords from Argonhall!” He dragged them forward to the circle. Echevarian and Paethor stood behind him, wedged between eager young valley men. Sylva had traded her lucky bean for the holly-wreath and cape, and prowled the edge of the circle, laughing as the valley youths all begged her to choose them. Hushed whispers and stifled mirth formed a background to the steady drum beat provided by the minstrels. Sylva slowed her steps, pausing to smile slyly up at Baron Carcham, then skipping away from him to the laughter of the crowd. She made her way around the circle and stopped before Trent, who grinned down at her. She glanced coyly at him through her eyelashes, and slowly raised the holly crown. Then she turned quick as lightning, and reached over his shoulder to set the wreath on Paethor’s brow. Hoots and cheers rose from the revelers, some of whom grabbed the cape and threw it around Paethor’s shoulders.