The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [89]
Men took their horses, and Berimund escorted them into the interior, down a series of halls, and up three flights of stairs so that Muriele was certain they were bound for one of the towers. Instead, they were shown into a large suite of rooms with large windows, elegantly appointed.
“Majesty, if this suits you, these will be your rooms.”
Muriele peered out the window. She had a beautiful view of the east side of the city, the winding Donau, and the plain beyond.
“It suits me very well,” she said. “Thank you, Prince.”
“I’ll send some servants for you to choose from. I hope after you’ve had some time to freshen up, you’ll join me at my table tonight.”
“I accept your invitation,” she said. “I wonder if your father will be there.”
“I’m going to talk to him now,” Berimund replied.
“I would like to speak to him at his earliest convenience.”
“Of course, Majesty. I will so inform him.”
But when they arrived in Berimund’s dining hall a few bells later, Marcomir wasn’t there.
Muriele stood politely as she was introduced to a dozen Hansan lords and their ladies standing at the long oaken table. None of them seemed to be above the rank of greft, and they all seemed about the same age as Berimund.
The hall itself was roomy and candle-lit, hung with tapestries of hunting scenes. Two white staghounds prowled hopefully around the table, and beyond all of that she could see the open door of the kitchen and several servants bustling about. Woodsmoke hung in the air, along with delicious odors, familiar and strange.
Mead was brought, which Muriele thought too sweet, followed by some pears and unfamiliar berries that were excellent.
Berimund rose and said something in Hanzish, and all the lords came to their feet. Berimund lifted his goblet and tilted it toward Muriele. Muriele remained seated. She hadn’t retained a lot from her childhood tutoring, but the various etiquettes of the civilized nations had remained with her.
“To Queen Muriele of Crotheny, a matchless beauty. The saints keep you hale and happy. Whairnei!”
“Whairnei!” they all repeated, and, after drinking, took their seats.
“You are all far too kind,” Muriele said, relieved that the toast was short. She wondered how many more she would have to endure.
Fifteen during the first course, as it turned out.
Meat came out next: roasted venison with what she thought was a cherry sauce, suckling pig with leek puree, fried hare in some sort of plum sauce, lamb-and-cheese pie, and a second pie of apples, quinces, and beef.
“Prince Berimund,” Muriele asked as she finished cleaning a venison rib and tossed it to one of the hounds, “I wonder if you gave your father my message.”
“I did, Majesty.”
“And?”
Berimund reddened slightly. “He apologizes that he didn’t find it convenient to come tonight.”
“But tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow.”
“Is the war keeping him so busy?”
“No, Majesty. He, ah—he’s going hunting.”
Muriele felt her blood—and the mead mixing in it—rise hot up her neck to her ears. “I see,” she said.
“We will find some entertainment for you, I promise.”
“I’m sure. What news is there of the war?”
Berimund stopped with a knife full of food halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“The war. You said it’s started. What news have you?”
“I really don’t think I can make Your Majesty privy—”
“Who would I tell?” Muriele asked. “Is someone here going to carry a letter to my daughter for me? I shouldn’t think so. Come, Prince. Tell me of the Hanzish victories.”
“Ah, well.” He looked around at his retainers. “You’re right, I suppose. Well, there’s not much really. A fleet from Liery tried to blockade Copenwis, but we met them in open sea with better numbers.”
“And?” Muriele asked, trying to stay stone-faced.
“They didn’t engage,” he replied. “It would have been stupid of them to. Of course, that was five days ago. There’s no telling what happened since.”
“That