“No, my lord, we did not know that the Moors were invading Ibile until after we had arrived,” Papa said truthfully. “Even then, I only went along on campaign to be with my son.”
“I am amazed to hear of a parent so dedicated,” Gaheris said, with an acid glare at Drustan. He was lean and weasel-faced, with his father’s long nose but a receding chin, and scarcely any lips at all. His eyes were small and constantly shifting.
The king glared back. “I, too, am amazed, for it is usually I who must insist that my sons accompany me when we march to war!”
Petronille rounded on him. “You should not force them, Drustan. Brion, yes, he has a fondness for battle, but Gaheris and John find it repugnant.”
“Not John!” Drustan beamed at his youngest, sitting at Mart’s right hand at the foot of the table. “He rejoices in the weight of his armor and the lance in his hand, do you not, boy?”
If Gaheris looked like a weasel, John looked like a pig. He wasn’t terribly fat, only a little plump, but his nose was short and tilted sharply up, his eyes were small and close set, his forehead low under black hair worn, like his father’s, at shoulder length. His only attractive feature was his beard, glossy black and silky, which had the double advantage of hiding his cheeks and chin. His doublet was already stained, though they were only on the second course.
He forced a smile in response to his father’s question. “You have taught me well, Father.”
Resentment flared in Gaheris’ and Brion’s eyes.
Before they could speak, the nobleman beside Gaheris exclaimed, “Ah, would I could have taken part in those battles!”
Matt looked up at him in surprise; he spoke with the accent of southern Merovence. He was lean but muscular, perhaps in his thirties, and handsome in an angular way, with dark hair cut short.
“You would, Orizhan,” Gaheris said sourly. “You’re almost as bad as Brion in that.”
“Yes, Sir Orizhan is a true knight,” Brion snapped. Like Orizhan, he wore his brown hair short, but was even more muscular—in fact, built like a carnival strong man. He wore a dark brown doublet with green facings, and his face was both handsome and regal, his nose as straight as his father’s but not as long, his hazel eyes large and long lashed, his face clean shaven, showing high cheekbones and a strong, cleft chin.
Gaheris and John bristled at the implication that neither of them was truly worthy of knighthood.
Alisande stepped in to defuse the situation. “But one would expect Sir Orizhan to yearn for battle, when his homeland is so close to peril.”
“Indeed, Majesty!” Sir Orizhan said fervently. “That our province of Toulenge was spared the Moors’ rule, I thank God!”
“Then go to a church,” Gaheris snapped, “and spare us your piety!”
Again Alisande stepped in. “I hope time does not hang too heavily on your hands, Sir Orizhan, for your ward must be quite safe in Their Majesties’ keeping.”
“I keep Rosamund close indeed,” said Petronille, with a glare at her husband, a glare which he returned.
Rosamund kept her gaze fixed on her trencher. She seemed cowed and apprehensive, a mousy little thing whose blond hair had lost its luster and whose eyes had dulled, but Matt; thought she might have proved quite a beauty if she’d had some spirit. She said not a word, and considering the company, Matt could sympathize. He just had to endure them for the evening, though—she had to live with them every day!
Sir Orizhan pulled attention away from her before she could be forced to talk. “King Drustan has been kind enough to find employment for me, Your Majesty, so that the time does not hang too heavily on my hands.”
“You’d be better employed minding your own business,” Gaheris snarled.
“Instead, he minds yours,” Brion shot back.
King Drustan gave a shout of laughter. “Aye, Sir Orizhan minds all your businesses, my young bawcocks, and I daresay you embroil yourselves in far less trouble because of it.”
“It isn’t always pleasant to have an old man dogging our footsteps, Papa,” John said, pouting.
Matt stared at Orizhan again. The man couldn’t have been over thirty-five.
“Unpleasant and pointless,” Gaheris snapped “Nothing can prevent Brion from picking a fight.”
“Nothing except the code of chivalry!” Brion returned. “A true knight never strikes the first blow, except in defense of the weak or innocent.”
“The innocent?” Gaheris gave him a nasty smile. “What would you know about innocence?”
“Or weakness?” John asked, still pouting.
“Brion wears a mail shirt throughout the day,” Petronille said quickly, “the more to strengthen his body.”
“Indeed,” Mama said, all enthusiasm. “I have heard him acclaimed as one of the finest knights in Europe—and he so young.”
“Yes, it is a pleasure to see one’s children excel.” Petronille tilted her chin a little higher, preening. “You have only the one, have you not, Lady Mantrell?”
“God has granted me no more,” Mama sighed, “but I thank Him that the one He did send me is so good a man.”
Drustan frowned. “Oddly phrased, though I am sure the Lord Wizard is goodly. Are you not more concerned with the strength of his arm than with his saintliness?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Mama snapped, eyes flashing. She caught herself and forced a smile. “Moral strength is the greatest, and that of the mind is second.”
“You speak as a priest would,” Gaheris said in disgust.
“I should hope so, for I am a devout Christian!” Mama turned on the prince. “Are you not, Your Highness?”
“Well, of coarse,” Gaheris answered, nettled. “Isn’t everybody?”
“But some more than others.” Brion gave him a dark look.
“Yes, and some never relent in their holier-than-thou attitudes!” Gaheris snapped.
“Nobody ever asks if I go to church,” John whined.
“With respect, Your Highness, I don’t think they’re talking about going to church,” Matt told him.
Alisande tried desperately to move the conversation back toward a safer topic. “Surely the strength of the body means something, Lady Mantrell!”
“There speaks the warrior!” Drustan said heartily, and Petronille gave him a glare.
“Of course a strong body means much, Your Majesty,” Mama said, smiling, “and Matthew has always been healthy— but he has gained so much since he came here! I think your climate is good for him.”
Alisande smiled, with a trace of a blush—she understood that Mama spoke of the emotional climate as well as the weather.
“But you are a knight also, Lord Wizard,” Brion frowned. “Surely you have learned the arts of warfare!” Rosamund hadn’t said a word so far, but now she shot at Brion, “Is there nothing for you but swords and maces?”
Brion reddened a little but said, “There is also the lute.”
“Yes, the most perfect knights are poets as well as swordsmen,” Matt interposed smoothly. “I’ve learned the arts of war since I came to Merovence, Your Highness—but I do agree that chivalry means cultivating the sensibilities as well as the body. Still, I count myself an indifferent poet. I acknowledge you my superior in verse.”
Brion reddened again, this time with pleasure. “Surely not, milord! You are so much more experienced than I!”
Matt laughed. “Experience counts for nothing without talent, Highness. I know many excellent poems, but in composing them, I may be clever, but I have no genius.”
Brion leaned forward, suddenly intent. “I must hear these poems that you count great.”
“Then you must find some time alone with the Lord Wizard,” Drustan snapped. “There are some of us who can do with just so much rhyming.”