“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.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
While I was contemplating these complexities of love, I saw Amalie walking past the hedges into one of the gardens, and I followed, pretending not to know she was there. The garden was formally laid out, in its center the worn statue of an old man or venerable god, so eroded that he seemed all gaping black eyes and hollowed-out beard. The flowers were brown and dead, and the avenues lined with fallen leaves that crackled beneath my boots. I affected to be surprised by the presence of a marchioness in this place, all in a gown of pure black with a tall collar that rose to her chin, and I took off my cap and “louted low,” as the saying is. A cool breeze floated past, and autumn leaves rained down from the trees and skittered along the gravel walks.
“Goodman Quillifer,” she said, “you are much discussed.”
“Pleasantly, I hope.” I straightened and put on my cap.
She frowned. “I thought the business of the pudding was overdone. That joke has grown stale.”
“I’ll forgo any more jokes about puddings.”
“Be advised that you should.” She stepped near, and I restrained my desire to put my arms around her. I saw that she wore the pearl pendant I had given her on the gold link girdle, as I wore its dark twin. She touched her chin with the tip of her closed fan.
“Yet it is said that you distinguished yourself in the hunt.”
“I did well enough.” I looked at her. “Yet I hope some other manner of hunting will prove more lucky for me.”
She looked at me from her long eyes. “What manner is that?”
“I hope to track you to your den, my lady.”
She flashed her little white teeth. “I would bite you if you did.” She let fall her fan. “But your hunt would fail. The guest rooms are crowded, and I share a room with my two maids. We would not be alone.”
I fell into step with her. “A few days ago, we speculated on the possibility of taking a ride out-of-doors,” I said. “It is a fine day, and perhaps we might find a mossy nook in the forest.”
“Too many eyes,” she said.
“Tonight, then, after the play?” I paused by the corroded old statue, and turned to face her. “We could meet here. I could bring blankets and a flask with a warming beverage.”
She smiled and touched my arm with her fan. “I will not say no, but I can make no promises.”
Other people came into the garden then, and Amalie and I parted. I procured blankets and a flask of brandy, which I rolled up and hid beneath a bench in a shadowed part of the garden.
That night we again ate out-of-doors, this time by torchlight, a great venison feast that had been cooking all afternoon. But before the food was served, a harp was struck, while a flute played low, muttering tones, and as that music played, into the U of the tables came the wood-woses, the wild men of the forest, who presented the heads of the stags slain that morning. The wild men were covered all in hair, with great thickets of beard, and spun into sight in a slow circular dance, carrying the heads on wooden platters. In their midst was their master, a Green Man whose foliage and viridian paint did not quite conceal the tall, angular form of the actor Blackwell.
The greatest head was dubbed the Stag Royal, the antlers were twined with tinsel of gold leaf, and a gold crown was placed upon its head. The head was so large that it was borne by two of the wild men, who first came to me, where I was seated with the Chancellery’s lawyers, and bowed to show me the head—one that I recognized even without viewing the triangular wound in its forehead. Then the woses carried the Stag Royal to the Queen, knelt, and then placed the head as a centerpiece at the high table. After which the wild men, still accompanied by the harp, did their slow revolving dance until they vanished from sight. I saw Blackwell’s intelligent eyes looking at me from behind his curtain of leaves, and he gave me little wink and nod in acknowledgment of my triumph.
Pride blazed up in me like a firework, and I received toasts and congratulations from many in that large, splendid company.