The Silver Bowl (7 page)

Chapter 13

Visions and Voices

“HIS ROYAL MAJESTY,
our dearly beloved sovereign lord, King Edmund of Westria!” the herald called out in a booming voice. “And the gracious and most esteemed Princess Anna Maria Elizabetta of Cortova!”

There was a tremendous buzzing of excitement in the hall, for all were eager to see the famous princess. She had only just arrived, having traveled many weeks to get here. Now she would stay on at Dethemere till Christmastide, and her wedding to Edmund.

If he lived till then.

“Oh, isn't she fine?” Winifred whispered, poking me in the arm. “But she's not like our ladies, now is she?”

“No,” I said.

“Darklike. And that hair, black as soot. And what a great, long nose she has!”

“I like her nose,” I snapped. “It's better than the mushroom that grows on
your
face.”

“Aw, Molls, that was harsh. I didn't mean no harm.”

“I know, Win. Me neither. I'm sorry.”

They were passing close by us now, all the servants gazing at Anna Maria Elizabetta—admiring her large, dark eyes; her olive skin; her glossy hair; her exotic headdress of gold, and emeralds, and pearls. That is why no one noticed me—how I sat recoiling, my mouth agape, my eyes open wide with terror. For I was looking at
him
, not her. And Edmund—oh, horrible!—was covered all over in blood, with horrid gashes about his throat. Yet he continued to walk, stately and calm, as though nothing at all was amiss. I had to cover my mouth so as not to scream.

I knew it wasn't real, not yet, anyway. But it would happen. My visions were always true. And this one—oh, I had been warned it would come at the wedding feast, with all of them gathered at a single table. . . .

I closed my eyes against the terrible sight. When I opened them again, Edmund had taken his seat at the high table, in his chair of estate, his face as handsome and unblemished as ever it was before. I watched as he leaned over and spoke to the princess. She turned her head slowly, as though she wasn't quite sure what he'd said. Then understanding dawned, and a bright smile lit her beautiful face.

Now there came another fanfare, and the banquet officially began. Out came three pages dressed in the king's livery, bringing forth the hand basin, the ewer, and the linen towel.

And that's when it struck me—what a simpleton I'd been! There were no assassins hiding among the guests. No man would rise up and slay the king with his sword. Edmund's death would come in some mysterious way, through evil magic, just as the others had. And that bowl, packed and humming with evil curses—

Already it was too late. Edmund was holding his delicate hands over the great silver basin.

I froze and watched—but nothing happened. No fire-spitting dragons rose up out of the water. Lightning did not strike. The king just washed his hands, and dried them, and returned to his conversation.

I glanced over at Tobias again. His face was blanched white. He'd been thinking the same thing as I had. We exchanged weak smiles of relief.

Then the archbishop rose and said grace, after which the music started up and a procession of waiters came in. They entered the room through the two service doors, one on each side of the great gilt screen that spanned the far end of the hall directly behind the dais.

First there came the pantler, who brought out the bread and butter. Kneeling before the high table, he cut the upper crusts from the loaves and gave them to the king and his guests, after which the pantler's boys served the rest of us.

Next came the butler and his assistants, bearing the beautiful silver flagons, heavy with wine.

And finally the food was brought out, one dish after the other, each consisting of some sort of fowl, for this was the theme of the first course: Birds of the Air. We had heron, partridge, snipe, plover, and woodcock—roasted, crisp, and beautiful. There was a pudding made from neck of swan, and bits of chicken bathed in cumin and cream, as well as tiny hummingbirds stuffed with dates and mustard seed, covered in wine sauce.

“Aren't you going to eat?” Winifred asked. “'Cause I'll take yours if you don't want it.”

“Eat your own,” I said.

“I was only asking. You can take bigger portions, you know.”

“We have three more courses to go, Winifred.”

“I know. I seen 'em in the kitchen: Creatures of the Sea, then Beasts of the Field, then Sweet Dainties, and Fruits, and the Tray of a Hundred Cheeses. But you can still take more if you want.”

“Well, I don't.”

About an hour into the banquet, the waiters came out and cleared the serving dishes. Now it was time to rest our stomachs for a while and enjoy the first entertainment. I knew what it would be; I'd seen it being constructed in the kitchen.

Above us, in the musicians' gallery, harps and viols began to play—sweet music for lovers, appropriate for a wedding. From behind the great screen there came a troupe of tumblers, followed by a chorus of village girls. They were all dressed in white and were carrying pink roses.

The children curtsied to the king, then to Elinor; and one by one they offered her their flowers. For a brief time she was nearly hidden behind a mountain of roses. Then the waiters came and moved them to the sideboard.

Poor Elinor, I thought. She could not possibly love her new husband. I doubted she even liked him. They'd scarcely met before that day; and he was old, and gloomy, and peculiar looking—and everybody knew he'd only wed her for her fortune.

Yet they were bound to each other for life. Soon she'd have to leave her childhood home, the great castle of a mighty king, to dwell in some middling hall such as an earl's youngest son would have, most likely stripped of all its great hangings and best furnishings to pay off his gambling debts. And there she would run out her days, sitting alone behind her veil, doing needlework by the fire—

Blast
those trumpets!
Was there no end to fanfares?

Ah, they were bringing in the spectacle: a pie so enormous it was carried on a cart drawn by a pair of dwarves dressed as little lambs. And bringing up the rear of this charming procession was the pastry cook, his garb gleaming white, even to his spotless apron.

He bowed low before the high table and asked if they wished him to serve up the pie. There were smiles all around, for of course everyone longed to see what was inside.

I already knew, yet I felt uneasy. Everyone and everything that came near the king might be suddenly transformed into something else. Something deadly. I shot a warning glance at Tobias.

The cook took out his long knife and carefully cut the top of the pastry—first one way, then the other, in the form of a cross. Now he stepped back as two heads emerged: it was another pair of dwarves, dressed as a bride and a groom. The little woman wore a circlet of rosebuds on her flowing golden hair.

While the guests were still applauding, the tiny bridegroom disappeared into the pastry shell again. Then he popped back up and, raising his hands to the rafters, released a flock of snow-white birds. The birds circled the hall in great confusion, trying to find their way out.

Now it was the bride who disappeared. The music swelled, and when she stood up again she was holding a wee infant. Oh, how everybody laughed when the cook cut open the sides of the pastry and the couple stepped out and walked around the hall bidding all to admire the child.

While servants ran in to clean up the mess and roll the cart away, the village girls finished the entertainment by singing country songs, all about love and marriage, while the little “lambs” danced and frolicked around the hall.

A few of the guests left their seats and headed in the direction of the high table. I leaned forward, on edge. But none of them went anywhere near the king; they left the room through the service doors.

Ah, I remembered—the latrines were at the top of the stairway. I saw Alaric touch his mother's arm, excusing himself to do the same.

And heaven help me, it did cross my mind—a stray thought, for only a second—that I could follow him there on the pretense of wishing to use the privy myself. I would get to see the prince up close, perhaps even speak a word to him. “Good afternoon, my lord prince,” or sommat like that.

Of course I didn't do it.

And thus I was still there in my seat by the door when the terrible thing happened.

Chapter 14

The Terrible Thing

“DO YOU FEEL THAT?”
I asked Winifred. “A draft?”

“No,” she said, fanning herself with her hand. “It's hot in here, Molls—all those torches and candles. I'm sweating like a hog.”

I didn't know what to make of that. I definitely felt a current of air, so cool it made me shiver.

Maybe the cook had opened the windows upstairs. But that wouldn't explain it, for a breeze couldn't travel all that way to the hall if it had no way to go out. I glanced over at the entry doors; they were still closed, as they had been this last hour and more. And the only windows—high above the tapestries along one wall—were fixed and did not open. Yet, if anything, the draft was growing more pronounced, and the air wasn't cool anymore. It was bitter and sharp, like a winter wind.

I am sometimes so slow to understand things. But finally I did: it was another sign, another warning, sent only to me. And it meant that the thing would happen soon, any minute now.

I half rose. I don't know what I thought to do—shout perhaps. But then I fell back onto the bench again and grabbed the table with both hands to steady myself. For I had seen it again, only this time it was worse: King Edmund lay upon the floor, right in front of me, covered in blood as before—only now, standing over him, was a huge silver wolf. It was tearing at his throat. I moaned and covered my eyes, but even then the vision would not go away.

I was making a spectacle of myself, I knew that, and so it did not surprise me when Winifred grabbed my arm and squeezed it tight. But then I heard other people screaming and took my hands away from my face.

The doors were open wide now—and there upon the landing stood a pack of enormous silver wolves, just like the one I'd seen in my vision. They were hunched down, muscles tense, as animals do when they're about to spring. Then the lead wolf leaped across the threshold and into the hall, and the rest of the pack followed.

In no time at all they had reached the dais. All around me, terrified guests were desperately trying to escape, nearly trampling one another in their efforts. But I stayed where I was, frozen with horror, as the lead wolf bound onto the high table, and from there to King Edmund's throat.

“This way! Quick!” It was Tobias, of course—he was always there when I needed him. He guided me into the crowd that flowed through the open entry doors. We had nearly reached the landing when I suddenly remembered.

“Wait!” I said, grabbing him by the sleeve. “We have to go back.”

“Go back? Molly, there's nothing we can—”

“For Alaric,” I said.

His mouth hung open. He stared at me. Then he finally understood. “Let's go,” he said.

Unaccountably, Winifred followed us. I couldn't imagine why. She didn't know what was really happening, why Alaric was in special danger. But follow us she did, as we fought our way through the crush of people, scrambling past overturned benches, stepping over the occasional silver platter or fallen tablecloth, always staying close to the wall and as far as possible from the snarling wolves and the carnage up on the dais. Eventually we reached a point where the flow was in the other direction, moving toward the service doors. After that the going was easier.

At last we made it through, and now the crowd spread out—sprinting up the wide stairway, streaming like a swarm of ants in the direction of the kitchen. We ran with them; but when we reached the landing we turned the other way, down the narrow hall to the left, the one that led to the latrines.

That's when we saw Alaric, just coming out of the privy, hastily rearranging his clothes, a look of confusion on his face.

“This way, my lord,” Tobias said, roughly grabbing the prince's arm and pulling him farther down the hall.

Alaric seemed about to protest, but he never got the chance, for the cries on the stairway turned to shrieks of horror. We looked behind us, and there was the wolf-king, just rounding the corner, his silky fur stained and matted with blood.

To this day I sometimes see it in my dreams so that I wake up moaning and soaked with sweat: I see the wolf spring as it had in the hall, its jaws open wide, its yellow teeth gleaming and as sharp as blades. I hear the fierce growl as it falls upon the prince, going for the throat but missing it by inches, sinking its teeth into the shoulder instead, rocking its horrible head back and forth as a dog will savage a rabbit.

Then Tobias grabs the wolf's thick fur just below the ears and slips his fingers into a corner of the animal's mouth, yanking the skin back hard at the cheek so that the wolf rears back in pain, snarling and letting go of the prince, who tumbles to the floor. The wolf tries to turn upon Tobias now, but it's still being held from behind, wild with rage, snapping and writhing about.

No one comes to help us. A few glance in our direction as they reach the landing, then hurry away toward the kitchen.

It's then that I notice the prince's dagger, still at his right hip, encased in its sheath. I run forward, and pull it out, and drive the blade into the beast—but the knife strikes a rib and only enrages the wolf more. It twists its body this way and that so that Tobias loses his balance and falls, taking the wolf down with him. I fear the wolf will get the better of him soon, for the creature lies right on top of him now, rocking back and forth, trying to turn its body around to go for the kill.

But its belly is exposed.

Now, Molly! I pounce like a fiend, never mind the raking claws that slash my arm as I strike; and this time the knife bites deep. But the creature continues to struggle, pumping out blood, twitching, until finally it goes limp.

Tobias still lies there, holding tight, making sure that the thing is really dead. Then he finally gets up, stumbling a little, and slams the carcass hard against the wall.

He is panting, trying to get his breath.

Then I remember the prince, who lies insensible on the floor, his doublet torn at the shoulder and soaked with blood. I am wondering what we should do to help him when I hear more screams, louder even than before. I turn to see the rest of the wolves, the whole pack of them, standing on the landing, looking around, getting their bearings. Then they see Alaric, and their yellow eyes narrow. They are creeping toward us.

Quick as ever, Tobias leans down, and takes the prince up in his arms, and runs heavily off to the far end of the hall, calling sharply for us to follow him and to make haste. I look around for Winifred and find her huddled in a corner by the privy.

I pull her to her feet and tow her along behind me after Tobias.

We run down a stairway that leads to a storeroom below. At the bottom there is a door.

“Open it!” Tobias shouts. His hands are full, holding the prince. “Hurry!”

I slide past him, praying it isn't locked, and take hold of the latch. The door is heavy, but it opens. We run through, shut it behind us, and set the bolt.

Just in time.

The pack is howling on the stairway outside. I hear them scratching wildly at the door, throwing their bodies against it. We stand in the darkness, terrified.

That is the point where I always wake up—which is strange, for the story continues. Indeed, it has scarcely begun.