Le Morte D'Ardour: Chapter Two

 Prologue

 Chapter One

CHAPTER TWO

With the accolades and respect afforded to someone who filled the role of head butler of a great estate, Anton should have considered himself better off than others. He was charged with the trust of the nobles to oversee the servants in the management of the many petty affairs of the castle. Most days, the honor associated with his position balanced out nicely when compared with how much stress and toil the job demanded.

Today was not most days.

Today was the ball. With hundreds of aristocrats with tempers to match their lofty titles to keep, Anton had his hands full.

The grand ballroom had been set up, the tables decorated with fine silks and the floors with expensive carpet. The room was lit by candles set into elaborate holders of crystal and gold, and the dancefloor filled with the music of the finest musicians who had played to emperors and cheering pub crowds alike. Setting all that up in a few too short weeks had been a great undertaking.

But that hadn’t been the hard part, oh no.

Now, with the ball in full swing and people dancing and commingling and spilling wine all over the fine furnishings, managing all of that was the hard part. Dodging swinging dance partners and pacing conversationalists all the while, Anton darted through the hustle and bustle of the festivities, intent on his current goal. He spotted a servant balancing two trays of bacon-wrapped figs and swinging his arms about to display them to passing partygoers. Murray, that was his name. Miller’s son, one of the newer servants, fit for the task. Anton beelined straight for the boy, who squeaked and proferred a tray, “Date, sir?”

And then his eyes bulged out a bit as he realized who precisely he was talking to, “Mister Anton! Sir! Hello! Oh, one moment,” he swung his arms around again as a man in a garish crimson doublet walked up to him, “Date, sir?”

Anton shuffled to stand beside Murray as the man plucked a date from the tray without so much as a word and walked off. Anton’s face was all smiles and deference but his words, which he had managed the trick of getting out through closed teeth, were laden with barely repressed panic, “There is a wagon full of wine out back and hardly anyone to unload it. Get on that.”

Murray’s face flooded with worry and his words went all stuttering, “But, sir, the dates…”

Anton groaned and grabbed the trays from him, “I’ll handle the dates, but if these nobles raise their cups and there’s nothing to fill them with, it’ll be your head before it’s mine. Go.”

Murray knew better than to reply, so he rushed off through the crowd, only barely avoiding crashing into a couple mid-tango.

Anton groaned. This was going to be a long, long night.

-

Murray had only barely managed to get clear of the dance floor. The nobles were awfully loud and his head was aching something fierce, and it was a touch more quiet on the edge of the room.

He’d managed not to get turned around, at least, and made for the doors that led off to the castle’s backrooms. The route skirted a bit too close to the royals’ table for comfort but the guards were a fine enough buffer between him and the blue bloods. Of course the guards were rather intimidating in their own right, all shiny armor and hefty weapons. His eyes fell on a wide shouldered, dark skinned woman, who looked…dangerous wasn’t the right word. Everything was dangerous, sometimes. Rather it was better to say that she looked to be all too ready for danger. And…he was staring, wasn’t he?

“Hey.”

What was he supposed to say to that? “H-hello? I need to…” He pointed uselessly at the door that led to the rest of the castle that she was standing right in front of.

She waved him off and stepped aside to let him through, “Go on, go on.”

He turned, relieved, until she said one last thing, “Rude to stare though.”

He ran then, and as the door fell behind him, he swore he heard her chuckle.

-

Sam chuckled as she heard the kid’s steps receding into the distance. Ah, the way some people just froze up when they found you were looking back at them. That, Sam had learned in twenty years of life, was your best weapon against judgement. She had learned it back when she was nothing but a farmer’s daughter tossing bales and discovered the efficacy of not just standing by when someone said that her being tall made her ugly or that muscles on a girl were unseemly. People often changed their minds, or at least learned to keep their opinions to themselves, when they had their asses handed to them. She had known it further still when she showed up at the castle for the position of a guard and stared down the servant until his insistence that they couldn’t have a woman guard was ground down into nothing but mumbling.

Sam did not take shit from people. Well, most people. She took shit from the people she respected and that list wasn’t long. Her folks, for one thing, and the guard captain had earned at least a measure of her respect. And, of course, the princess. The other guards said this was her special way of showing deference to nobility. But that wasn’t really the case.

A woman with far too much wine in her glass, and perhaps in her stomach, tumbled a bit too close to the table where the regent sat. Sam put a hand on her shoulder and flashed her the look. The woman began to protest at this handling, started out the whole, “Do you know who I am?” spiel. That quickly stopped when she noticed Sam’s expression, or lack thereof. She eased back at that, muttering to herself about how rude guards could be, and Sam took that as cue to draw away and lean back against the wall.

No, she thought, re-crossing her arms, the thing with Reserve wasn’t a noble thing.

Reserve just didn’t back down. She hadn’t on their first encounter and hadn’t since, and that had endeared her to Sam.

Had endeared her to Sam in ways that she perhaps shouldn’t have been. For reasons that in fact were to do with the whole peasant guard and noble princess thing. But those thoughts were distractions, flitting and pointless. She pretended to readjust her chestplate and surreptitiously checked to make sure the envelope nestled in its pocket on the inside of her padded tunic. The letter was there as, hah, a reserve. One that would likely never be delivered and stay in that pocket on a permanent basis. It was there and barring Sam one day waking up in a different world entirely, there it would stay.

She turned her attention to the ball, putting out of her mind the letter and all its contents.

There they were, she thought to the accompaniment of the violas, the finest of the fine-classed, or so everyone insisted.

They…the best word for it was strutted, they strutted across the hall, the women in fine gowns and the men in finer doublets and military jackets weighed down with medals and honors. They’d all fought in one war or another, the stories went, yet no one remarked from where exactly they had fought. No one considered if they had been warming their feet by a fire in their well-guarded while their peasant conscripts killed each other over which noble owned a particular river.

The men ranged the span from old fashioned and grey bearded to bright-coated and fresh faced, and they flaunted the swords at their sides with great flair. This disregard for any subtlety whatsoever offended Sam quite a bit. Granted she herself wasn’t that circumspect but she knew enough to make a point of not showing off her weapons.  

The nobles moved in small groups, couples and entourages that made lazy orbits of the ballroom, often happening onto another to exchange pleasantries and then depart and then do the same thing again and again. Reserve would have laughed and made a game of memorizing the routes they took, taking guesses at who’d bump into who. But Reserve wasn’t here. Only her family was.

Sam turned her attention to said family, who were for the night her charges. There sat the regent, conversing with his circle of advisors, and there the princesses, each with their own little court of ladies set up around them. And all the while there was the head butler, darting about trying to make himself as small as possible. Sam snorted.

The guard beside her perked up at that, “Hrm, huh, what’s going on?”

Sam knocked the back of her head against the wall, “Nothing, Willis, go back to snoozing.”

“Will do, hrm,” and then he was off, his eyes glazing over.

Sam set herself in for a long night.

That was when a man suddenly broke from the bustling crowd and headed right towards the royal’s table and Sam had no time to react as he leapt onto it and aimed a rapier right at the regent’s neck.

-

Anton had, after passing off the bacon-wrapped figs to another servant, run down to the cellar and retrieved a bottle of the finest vintage. He had had all the intention of surreptitiously refilling the regent’s cup and slipping off to attend to the thousand other small matters of the ball.

It was because of this that he was right at his lordship’s side when a light haired man with the faintest hint of a ‘beard’ leapt onto the table. The bottle was still in his hands when the man whipped out a rather sharp sword and pointed it at the regent’s neck.

Instinct took over. That or panic, he couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was it led him to whip the bottle at the man’s face. The man hardly saw it coming and Anton was already wincing at the thought of it cracking across the attacker’s features and worrying about getting reprimanded or disciplined for injuring a noble, even a treacherous one, when…

The man caught it. Sniffed the open top. Then brought it to his mouth and took a sip. He sighed in pleasure and gave a low laugh.

“What a fine way you treat your guests, your Highness! Excellent wine, if a tad dry.”

Anton knew from many tastings that it was not at all dry but he was just glad the man was addressing the regent and not the mere servant who had just thrown an entire bottle at his face.

“Anyways, wine aside, thank you for that, by the way,” Oh no, Anton was being addressed. But then the man had turned his head back to the regent, “You have something that belongs to me and mine.”

The regent sat looking even more out of nerves, if that was possible, and didn’t utter a word in response.

The man just raised an eyebrow, “Your kingdom, you absolute shit.”

The man continued, “I am, as you perhaps know, the Prince of the Western Kingdom, the one that your kingdom has never shown the proper respect and…”

The room had been tense. The two princesses had sat ramrod-straight in their seats, eyes on the assailant prince at all times. The other nobles had followed suit. Time had seemed to slow.

And then the man started making threats and the guards realized, oh yes, this was their department.

The tension cracked and the guards sprung into motion.

Thank God, they were doing their jobs and soon this would all be over and be seen as nothing but a madman’s failed attempt at spoiling a perfectly good ball.

That was when one noble finished his glass of champagne, stepped out and kicked an approaching guard in the back of his knee. The guard tumbled to the ground in a clatter of armor.

Then more nobles stepped out and made quick work of the other guards, striking at them from behind with quick blows of fist and dueling sword.

The man with whom this had all started was still talking, “…and as you can see here, I did not come alone. These fine men are those among the other kingdoms who share a mind with me and have backed my bid to claim your throne for my own…”

Not all the nobles had gone the same way as their fellows. Some, mostly the fresh-faced ones, seemed to have been entirely taken by surprise by this treachery. Swords were drawn and valiant charges into the fray made and yet they were all ultimately overcome by the other nobles. The combination of prior planning, numbers and dueling experience served to put a crushing boot to any would-be heroism. Were it any other day, it might have amused Anton to see the Duke of Westbury’s nose broken by that of the Prince of Valemont.

Oh, were it any other day.

-

The night’s chill of the castle’s delivery lot coupled with the exertions of the day made sure of the fact that when a cask was dumped into his arms, Murray couldn’t help but buckle a bit under the weight.

“Mister…mister Anton would have you…” he panted a bit as he tried to get a better grip on the cask.

The cart’s driver, who had climbed back onto his bench, waved him off, “I know, I know, have me stay until they need me to go back to town for another load of whatever.” He slid back into his seat, cap sliding over his eyes, “I’ll be here, don’t worry. Coin’s keeping me,” he added, with a pat of the pouch at his hip.”

Murray just nodded and began shuffling back into the relative warmth of the castle’s interior. He had a long, twisting way to go to return to the ballroom. Clearly, none of the architects had worried themselves with the logistics of bringing a heavy cask from the castle’s lot to the ballroom. Those worries were heaped onto Murray, who was already considerably weighed down.

The driver just leaned back and let his own worries fade away into the autumn night.

-

Sam kept to the walls. The other guards had taken immediate action. That’s what they’d been trained to do. Mornings had been spent drilling simple commands into them. Strike. Charge. Don’t flinch.

And look where that had gotten them. Many had either been dispatched by the nobles or had hung back for fear of true violence. Maybe some of them hoped that they’d be rewarded if they did nothing, perhaps offered new jobs in this prince’s service. They had quickly accepted the prince’s victory as a truth.

Sam understood the decision.

She just couldn’t follow through with it.

She had her reasons, tucked away in the inside pocket of her tunic and in the recesses of her heart.

Sam had been educated in how these things usually went. Take the nobility most likely to resist a change in rule hostage. Assume power. Negotiate with your hostages, offer positive incentives alongside the promise of safe return back to their respective kingdoms. Make sure that the people you’re wresting power from had no avenue to reclaim it. Sometimes that meant lifelong imprisonment. Sometimes it meant a very public execution after the coronation.

Sam could not and would not have that happen to the princess.

The traitor prince made it all clear to the other nobles as well, “Do not raise a hand against me, and you will be spared. Do not aid the regent or the princesses, and you will be spared. They…” he said, pacing across the table, swinging his sword about arcs that came dangerously close to the royals, “…will likely not receive the same pleasure. A throne cannot be taken with liabilities out in the world, after all.”

Sam inched across the wall, bit by bit, working her way as close to the table as she could manage. She passed by the open door she had never thought to run through, not when she had a job to do when she heard…steps. Plodding ones, joined with the odd grunt. She froze. Felt the coarseness of the rough paper of the letter. Then she ducked through the exit and out and straight into the way of the servant boy, his arms taken up by an enormous cask. Before he could so much as squeak she put a finger to her lips and he froze up.

Good.

She looked back at the narrow gap in the door she had slipped through and turned to the boy.

“Alright, this’ll be easier to show than explain,” and she grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him over so he was facing through the crack. She put a mailed hand over his mouth to stifle the gasp she knew he would make, and he did, when he saw the situation in the ballroom.

“I reckon you can see that things aren’t good. I’m giving you a chance to get out alive.” She turned him about and gently took the cask from his arms.

He looked at her, “Alive? But…the others?”

He’d have lived with the other servants, joked with them, got on them at least as well as Sam got on with the other guards. Living in the castle, they’d be something like family to him.

And Sam knew she wanted the other guards to get out too. Them and the royals and the nobles and as many people as she could save. But here was one person she could save. And another…

“You can leave. Run for the back or…”

“The cart. The cart’s still out back. I could run back….”

“You could. But there’s the princess Reserve, and her maid, and her guard. Could you…..” It was asking a lot. An immediate escape would be tempting. She had to understand that. Even if…

“I’ll do it.”

She looked to him, and he was talking more to himself, “It’s not far to the princess’ tower. I can get there quick, and get them to the back and away.”

That had surprised her. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? People could be threatened or cajoled into inaction but give someone a chance to help people, they would like as not take it.

Murray nodded his head, assured now, “That’s what I’ll do. But…” He looked at Sam, brows furrowing in concern, “What about you?”

She laughed mirthlessly, and replied, “I’ll do my job. Protect the royals. Try and stop this.”

Murray’s smile had the same amount of humor in it as her laugh, and he turned, “Thank you. I’ll find them. I’ll get them safe.”

But there was one last thing.

She breathed in, breathed out, and said, “Wait.” She drew out the folded up note and handed it to Murray, “Give this…to the princess.”

Murray took it and tucked it away into his pocket.

“Good luck, um, I, uh, don’t know your name.”

“Sam,” she said, “And keep the luck. I think you’ll need it more.”

And they parted. One ran into the depths of the castle, seeking a princess and an escape.

The other slipped back into the hall, only to find herself facing down a noble, sword drawn. Behind him, still standing on the table, the prince gave a little wave, “Oh hello there! Why, I can’t believe I almost missed a loose end.”

The noble in front of her just gestured in the prince’s direction, like a servant directing one to the coatrack, and Sam tentatively stepped towards the royals’ table.

The prince had begun to look contemplative, “You know, this reminds me. I have a coward regent,” he said with a flourish of his sword at the man himself.

“And the bookish spinster,” The sword’s leapt to Wisdom.

“And the dancing airhead,” To Grace.

“And even their little butler!” and to Anton, and then he drew the sword up and tapped his chin with it, “But what about the ever so fragile princess, the cursed wretch? Granted she’s useless,” Sam’s fist clenched, “But a loose end is a loose end. Richard!” He pointed to a man in a red surcoat, “Take some men, find the princess, bring her here. In one piece, if you can manage it, but I won't fault you for a missing finger or two.” The man apparently named Richard nodded and waved to some nobles in the corner, tall and scarred the lot of them, and proceeded out of the corridor.

The prince looked back to Sam, “Thank you ever so much for the reminder. Now!”

He looked to the hall, to all the gathered gentry, “Friends! Let’s get to it! The night has only just begun!”

-