The Silver Bowl (5 page)

Chapter 9

There Is to Be a Wedding

EDMUND, NOW OUR KING,
had for many months been negotiating with the distant kingdom of Cortova. To seal an alliance between the two countries, he was to marry the king's only daughter.

And Princess Elinor, Edmund's older sister, had been betrothed since before her father's death.

But neither of these weddings could take place until Westria had mourned the death of Godfrey. And so, for the span of one year, no stately dinners were held in the hall. Music and dancing were banned throughout the kingdom, and all the court went about dressed in mourning drab. Even servants such as we wore armbands of black cloth. We spoke in hushed voices as if fearing to wake the dead.

Now the year was over and we could proceed with the business of the living. And so Elinor's wedding was set for two weeks after Michaelmas. Not long thereafter, at Christmastide, Edmund would marry the princess from Cortova.

After such a long season of gloom and sorrow, this lifted our spirits mightily—as spring does when it comes after winter's drear days. Preparations for two royal weddings would mean a lot of work for us, but there followed a stupendous reward: the house servants were all invited to attend the wedding feasts.

“You lie!” I squealed when Hannah told me this.

“Mind your tongue,” she said. “I never lie. It has always been so at Dethemere Castle.”

“But that is wonderful!”

“It is most generous, yes. But mind you,” she added, “Elinor's wedding will be a simple affair. Not only out of regard for her father's memory, but because she doesn't much care to show herself. She is a modest lady, and solemn, and quiet.”

“And then there's the matter of the bridegroom.” We all turned to Sarah, who was grinning wickedly, her eyes wide with amusement. She'd not been at Dethemere long, but she always seemed to know what went on beyond our narrow boundaries.

“What about the bridegroom?” we all wanted to know.

“He's a disaster. The third son of an earl, without fortune of any kind. What little he inherited when the earl died, he wasted it all on gambling.”

“No!” Winifred cried. “Why would our princess marry such a one as that?”

“Nobody else would have her.”

“Why?” I asked. “Because her looks are ruined?”

“No. I don't believe that for a minute,” Hannah said. “Many a lady who was marked by the pox has gone on to marry well. And Elinor is of noble blood, and has a generous dowry and great connections. There should have been highborn men aplenty who'd be glad to wed her, no matter how she might look.”

“What then?” I asked.

“It's the curse.”

“That again? Oh, Winifred.”

“She's right,” Sarah said. “All the kingdom is talking of it. First Matthias dies, then Godfrey. And such peculiar deaths they suffered, strange and unnatural. People say the royal family is under some terrible enchantment. Who would want to join them, then, however great the riches and honor?”

“I think that's very sad,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” Hannah agreed. “So we must do all we can to make sure everything is splendid for her wedding, simple though it may be.”

And so the preparations began.

Now don't let words such as
simple
and
modest
fool you as they did me. The humblest royal wedding would stagger the imagination. The very best tablecloths were all taken out so the laundresses could wash and mend and press them. Those that would be used on the high table were given special care. Ten-inch strips of fine lace were sewn along the outer edges. It took five seamstresses more than a week to do it.

The rushes in the great hall were removed. Then all the nasty things that lay beneath them—from rotting food and spilled wine to dried vomit and dog's droppings—were swept up, after which the floor was washed. Then new, clean rushes mixed with flowers and fragrant herbs were laid down.

Carts and wagons came and went daily, bringing
all manner of provisions to fill up the storerooms—mackerels, eggs, mustard, flour, salt, honey, and capers, not to mention bushels of hay and oats. Fruits from the orchards were carried in, and bounty from the fields. Over in the dairy they were making double the ration of butter and cheese, while the bakehouse turned out loaves both night and day. All manner of livestock was brought into the yard—cattle, and sheep, and pigs, and ducks, and geese, and swans—and temporary pens were built to hold them till they were slaughtered. For soon the castle would be groaning with guests, and all of them needed to be fed.

Thomas and I, of course, had to polish everything. He brought out silver I'd never seen before, pieces that were used only on great occasions. There was so much of it, and some so badly tarnished that we even brought in Winifred a few times to help with the commonplace things.

But I didn't mind the extra work. Indeed, I was glad to be in the silver closet at such a hectic time, for it was quiet in there, and orderly, and clean—so much more pleasant than the hot and steamy kitchen, where everyone went about sweaty and greasy, overworked and snappish, and orders were bellowed from first light till well after dark.

I measured the passing of time by how much we had accomplished. As each piece of silver was polished, Thomas would check it off his list. I liked to ask at the end of the day, “Thomas, how many have we finished?” He would open his book and read out what he had written there: “We are done with all the flagons, Molly. Of the trays, we have polished seventeen, with twelve more to go. Of the goblets . . .”

And so it would go. As each day passed, more and more was checked off; less and less remained for us to do. One day soon Thomas would make that last little check mark. Then the work would be over and the fun would begin.

I would have been happier, though, if I wasn't so worried about Tobias.

He'd been sent with a wagon to the king's western vineyards to bring back wine for the banquet. I knew it was a long way there and back, but a week had passed since he left and still he had not returned.

I'd gone over to the stables the evening before to ask when he might be expected. The lads there made light of it and winked at me knowingly. Why did everyone think we were sweethearts? I wrinkled my nose at them, and they laughed.

“It may be he was set upon by brigands.” This from Morgan, the tall one.

“Or savaged by wolves,” suggested Willem, a red-faced fellow with pustules on his cheeks and a sad little mustache on his lip. “They've been seen in great numbers about these parts, hunting in packs. Everyone has remarked upon it—the other carters and the guests who have lately arrived.”

“You're not funny,” I said. “Not in the least.”

“Oh, take a joke. Don't be an old prune.”

“I'm leaving,” I said, and turned to go.

I was near across the stable yard when Willem called after me. “It's true about the wolves,” he said.

And so you will understand why I was uneasy and distracted. As I worked, I ran down a list in my mind of possible delays: muddy roads, high water, a bridge down at a river crossing, a lame horse, a loose wheel. Such things could happen to anyone. And Tobias was sensible; he'd know what to do.

I finished the tray I'd been working on and handed it to Thomas, who wrapped it carefully in linen and returned it to its accustomed place. Then he took up his pen and checked it off.

I said I needed to visit the privy before I started on the next piece. Thomas nodded, and I left the room.

That had only been an excuse, of course. What I really wanted was to look out the kitchen windows. I could see the stable yard from there; I hoped to catch sight of Tobias and put my mind at ease.

I didn't see him, though I spied the next best thing: a wagon piled high with casks, newly come into the yard. Of course those casks might be filled with oil—or beer, or mackerel. But I chose to believe they held wine from the king's western estates. My heart lifted.

Then I returned to the silver closet, and there at my place sat the great silver hand basin, waiting for me to polish it.

I looked at Thomas pleadingly. I had not touched the bowl since that first terrible time. And though Thomas had been most displeased with me, he'd agreed to do it himself—for a while, he'd said, till I'd mastered my fear. Now, apparently, that time had come.

“No nonsense,” he warned, before I uttered a word. “The hand basin was to be your responsibility; I'm not going to do it for you anymore.”

“Oh, Thomas, I beseech you. Let me polish anything else. I'll even do the saltcellar if—”

“No, you will
not
!” he said. “You will do as you are told or I shall find someone else who will. Truly, I used to think you a sensible girl, but you've become as silly as any—”

“All right,” I said, sitting down at the table and picking up the polishing cloth. “I'm sorry. I won't complain anymore.”

Still I hesitated. I put down the cloth again and tested the paste between my fingers. I had just been using it five minutes before, and it had been perfectly fine. But I pretended it wasn't quite right, and added a few drops of water, and ground it again with the pestle.

Thomas gave a little sniff of exasperation. He could tell I was stalling, and he was nearing the edge of his patience.

I would work fast, I decided. It would be over in a trice. The bowl wasn't very tarnished. So I fixed my face in the usual mask of concentration, dipped my cloth in the paste, and began. I took my time with the back of the bowl. It had never given me any trouble. Then I turned it over and finished the rim. Now there was no help for it; I must endure whatever the bowl had to show me.

Soon I felt the tingling beneath my fingers. The silver began to grow warm. How long before the voice would start telling me to listen, to pay attention, to—?

“Listen!”
it said.
“Pay attention! There is not much time.”

As before, the pattern began to grow misty and melt before my eyes until gradually an image was revealed. It was blurry at first, as when you look at the world with tears in your eyes. But quickly it settled and sharpened.

By the light of a candle, I saw the hands of an old man. He held a quill pen; nearby was a bottle of ink. He was writing something. I heard the pen scratch as it moved across the paper and the soft breath of the writer as he worked. Now and then he wiped the tip of the pen with a cloth, then dipped it into the ink again.

Ha!
I thought, and almost smiled.
Write all you want; I'm as ignorant as a pig. I can't even read my own name.

But no, I was not to be let off that easily. For now there came the same familiar voice. It was going to read the letter to me!

“‘It is to my everlasting shame that I have failed you, my beloved, that I've bungled matters and kept you waiting all these many years. But at last our forces, which slept for so long, are awake and growing in their power.'”
Scratch, scratch.
Wipe. Dip. “‘The tragic events that have occurred of late tell me this is so. Surely
they will not pass up this incredible opportunity, with all the family gathered at a single table!'”
Tink
,
tink
—dipping the pen into the ink again, tapping it against the neck of the bottle to knock off any excess. “‘How it gladdens my heart to know that you shall be here to see it. . . .'”

I drew in a sudden breath. They were going to strike at the banquet! That must be what the writer meant: “all the family gathered at a single table.” They planned to kill them all in a single afternoon!

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Molly!”

“What?” I said, trying to look surprised.

He grimaced, making an
O
with his mouth, furrowing his brow.

“Do I look like that?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Well, I didn't mean anything by it. Honest. It's just that I've been staring at silver day and night till I'm near to going blind.”

“I understand,” he said, though he did not sound as if he meant it. “And you may go as soon as you're finished with the bowl. I'll be in conference with the steward for the rest of the afternoon. We'll start again early tomorrow and finish the rest.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

I had scarcely touched the bowl again when the pattern began to dissolve, taking its new shape before my eyes. I was in the silversmith's workshop again, and the square-faced man was there. Standing beside him was a young woman, probably his wife; she held the baby at her hip.

These visions were confusing. They came all jumbled up and out of order. Of course this would have to be something that happened before the silversmith was killed.

“You should have refused him,” the woman said.

“I couldn't. I had no choice.”

“Of course you did. You might have told him you have not the skill to do it, that you are nothing but a charlatan and your Loving Cups are a fraud.”

“They're not.”

“Oh, you and your silly pride.”

“Listen to me: if I'd told him I couldn't do what he asked, then he would have killed me on the spot, as I'd be of no use to him and he'd fear that I might talk. Once I was dead he'd have gone after you and the child—”

“But you cannot lay a death-curse on a newborn baby, no matter the cost. 'Tis wicked, William, truly.”

“I know that, and I don't intend to do it. But as long as he thinks I am willing, we will gain some much-needed time.”

“Time for what?”

“For you and Greta to go somewhere safe. They'll be watching us, but I have a plan. You visit the market every day. As soon as I have made all the arrangements, you will simply not come back. Meanwhile, I shall make them a marvel, and swear that it is cursed. When it's done I'll slip away and join you.”