“My lord prince,” said Isabel. I whipped my head round to her, but she were only looking at the prince, beautiful and calm like the moon, staring at him, her head tilted back and exposing her throat like a lamb. “My lord, they are hungry. Surely you cannot ignore the plight of your people—they turn to you for every sustenance, both human and spiritual. You are their bread.”
The court were rapt, her pretty lies captivating them all.
He put his hand over her cheek, and she closed her eyes like it were God Himself touching her. “My princess is as beautiful as she is wise,” he told the court. “And so close to Christ’s own birth, we shall not be the only ones to feast tonight. Hertford! Where is de Clare?” he shouted, looking round.
De Clare stood and came forward, kneeling hastily before the prince’s table. “My lord prince.”
“See to it that the people of Nottingham feast tonight as well.”
Isabel swept her head down like she were to cry. “My lord prince is generous and kind,” she cried, overloud for talking to her lap, and the hall cheered. De Clare came up and whispered in Prince John’s ear, and the prince whispered back. De Clare nodded and left.
“Will he really feed them?” I asked quiet of Winchester.
“He will,” Winchester said. “The prince is capable of great generosity; I wouldn’t say it’s natural to him, but he is capable.”
They began carving the pigs and soon a plate were heaped in front of me with a trencher of bread beside it. I took some of the roasted pig and though I half expected the whole thing to taste like the cuts of bacon Tuck sometimes made, it were more like crisp-skinned ham. It were hot, which weren’t an everyday luxury, and rich beyond measure. I took a few bites and ate some of the bread, watching those around me.
Men were filthy things. They bit until the juice ran into their beards, and they swiped at their maws and wiped it wherever they could land their hands. They let bits of food drop into the rushes on the floor and the dogs had a grand time of it. They ate and ate and ate.
The wine flowed overmuch, and by the end of the meal, the minstrels were kicking up a fine tune, and Prince John clapped his hands and called for dancing. He took his wife’s hand and led her closer to the minstrels, to the bit of room between the eating tables and the ones laden with food.
I didn’t ever remember seeing dancing much at Leaford, but I were shocked by how common it seemed. Granted, the village folk held each other close and tight when they started to dance wild and fast to music, and Prince John left a much more respectable distance between him and his wife, but they were hopping and kicking and turning about, clasped at the hand, like anyone were wont to do round a fire.
Other nobles joined in, and Winchester asked me quiet if I should like to dance.
“I don’t much know how,” I said to him. “Another night, when I’ve watched a fair bit.” I smiled. “Or perhaps when they all think me less wild. Though if you could help me with the chair, your Grace, I wouldn’t mind making a slip of it,” I said.
He chuckled. “Of course, my lady,” he said, and graciously stood. “Lord Leaford, permit me?” he asked of Gisbourne.
Gisbourne waved his hand. Hawk-eyed, he watched as I stood, but Winchester offered me his hand like we were to dance and led me off until Gisbourne looked away.
Winchester kissed my hand. “You’re free, little bird. Fly as you will.”
I bobbed a curtsy to him and quit the hall.
The door I had chosen led out to the upper bailey, and the night were warmer than some, with a crisp smell to it that probably meant snow. There were a page at the door that called me “milady,” and I sent him to fetch my cloak from my chambers. And he went.
Seemed there were loads of useful tricks for noble folks.
I weren’t halfway across the bailey when the page brought it to me, settling the warm weight on my shoulders. “Thank you,” I told him.
“Milady.”
I walked closer to the gaps in the bailey wall—meant for archers and the like—that looked out onto the town. I heard the snow crunch a bit and looked back toward the boy. He were just standing there, watching me.
“Are you from round here, or do you travel with the prince?” I asked him.
“I’m in the earl’s household, milady,” he said, showing me his tunic. As if that meant something to me. I knew most lords branded their servants, but I knew little of the colors and he didn’t have a coat of arms on it.
“Sorry, lad. Winchester, yes?”
He nodded.
“An excellent man. Is he a good master?”
“Excellent in all things that I’ve seen, milady.”
“Are you training to be a knight in his household?”
“Yes, milady.”
I rested my arms on the smooth stone ledge, imagining the months before when all the nobles, gussied up like I were now, rushed over to see smoke in the village below. I turned back to where the entrance to the prison stood, half hoping to see Gisbourne towering over me and Rob fighting him back, but it were silent and empty. So much had changed that night. Rob gave himself up to save me, gave me the first hope for his heart, and started me down a road that led to the cursed ring on my hand.
“Milady?” the page asked me.
“Hmm?” I looked to him, but he weren’t looking at me.
“Milady, do you hear that?”
Shaking free of the past, I listened. There were shouts and clanking, heavy clangs.
Fair awkward, I jumped up into the narrow, tilted window and leaned out, holding careful with my good arm. I leaned till I could feel the wind whip me and see the fuss.
“The gates,” I said, jumping down before he could help me or protest. “Come on, lad, the gates!”
Picking up my skirts with my one hand, I set to running, and he yelped and followed. We slid down the snow-slicked gauntlet to the second bailey, running over that yard to the next gauntlet.
Breaking onto the lower bailey, the gates were in full view, and it were mad. The gates were half lowered and the people were heaving against the guards with torches and twisted faces, screaming and crying and throwing food.
The castle guards were yelling to each other, barking to push the people back, keep them out of the castle, protect the prince. A layer of guards with drawn swords were setting up behind those with their armored hands on the people of Nottingham.
The food that were sailing over their heads were splattering in the snow. Bits, scraps, black-spotted potatoes, and other things I couldn’t quite name that smelled of rot without so much as a hot wind to carry it, and I knew what it were in an instant—the prince’s gift, his mighty bounty. Spoiled food and leftovers.