The Table of Less Valued Knights (9 page)

By the time of the dress fitting that evening, Martha was so exhausted she could barely stand, but she teetered in front of the mirror in the tower room where she was to be incarcerated all the same. She looked at herself from the side, and then from the front. Then from behind, peering over her shoulder, and then from the front again. It was undeniable: she looked terrible.

‘Perhaps with more corsetry?’ suggested Deborah. ‘And some padding? Around the tits area, Your Majesty?’

‘I’m already so corseted that I can’t sit down, or breathe, or eat, and we’re having an eighteen-course wedding banquet.’

‘Maybe if I shorten the sleeves,’ said Deborah. ‘Make a feature of your forearms.’

‘Or maybe if my wedding dress wasn’t black, or I actually wanted to get married, or my father hadn’t just died.’

‘I’ll try the sleeves,’ said Deborah.

Martha held her arms out as Deborah jabbed her with pins.

‘Thank you, Deborah.’

There was silence as Deborah considered the results.

‘The shorter sleeves aren’t working. That was a terrible idea,’ she said. ‘I’ll take them down again. But I’ll put some more frills on the bodice, bulk up the bust, that should help a bit. And the veil will cover your freckles.’

‘Perfect.’

‘By the time he finds out what you actually look like, it’ll be too late.’

‘That’s very comforting.’

Encouraged by this, Deborah began stuffing handfuls of itchy lace into Martha’s cleavage.

At that moment there was a knock at the door. Although she knew it would only be a temporary reprieve, Martha was relieved. ‘Who is it?’ she said.

‘It’s … Mistress … Smedley …’ came the reply. Martha could barely make out the words, as the woman in question was panting so hard from the effort of climbing the stairs.

‘Mistress Smedley?’ she said. ‘Why on earth? Deborah, let her in.’

Deborah opened the door. Mistress Smedley, Martha’s former governess, half stood, half knelt on the stone threshold, scarlet-faced and bent double. She was not built for speed. Under one arm was a large, leather-bound book.

‘Your … Majesty …’ she gasped.

‘It is always a pleasure to see you, but what are you doing here?’ said Martha.

‘The King … is dead …’ wheezed Mistress Smedley.

‘Yes, I know. That’s not what you came here to tell me, is it?’

Mistress Smedley shook her head and tried to continue.

‘Long … live …’

‘Glass of wine?’ suggested Martha.

‘… The … don’t mind if I do … Queen …’

Deborah hooked an arm around the erstwhile governess and dragged her over to a damask-covered chair by the fireside. Mistress Smedley managed two glasses of wine in the time it took to get her breath back.

‘I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,’ she said at last. ‘Is that your wedding dress? I think it could do with some padding at the top.’

‘That’s what I told her,’ said Deborah.

‘My bodice is so full of stuffing I’m beginning to know how the duckottapin feels,’ said Martha.

‘Speaking of stuffing,’ said Mistress Smedley. ‘Oh, my dear. I have allowed a terrible, terrible lacuna in your education. An ellipsis. You know what an ellipsis is, don’t you, dear?’

‘Of course.’

‘A little absence. Nothing important. Or so I thought. You were always so sweet and so innocent. I didn’t want to … Well. And then this morning I realised that if I didn’t tell you now … Oh my poor, sweet, motherless child.’

Mistress Smedley loosened her grip on the leather-bound book she had been clutching to her ample bosom. She slid it along her knees towards Martha.

‘I think you’d better take a look,’ she said.

‘
An Illustrated Guide to Married Life
?’ read Martha from the gold lettering on the cover.

‘Oh Lordy,’ said Deborah.

‘Open it, dear,’ said Mistress Smedley.

‘Very well,’ said Martha. ‘Deborah, are we done?’

‘I think I should loosen you up,’ said Deborah. ‘We don’t want you fainting.’

‘Fainting?’ said Martha, but she allowed Deborah to unlace her corset. Then she took the book from Mistress Smedley’s lap and opened it on her dressing table.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well. That’s fine. I already know what I look like, in the state of nature.’ She went to close the book.

‘Turn the page,’ said Mistress Smedley.

Martha did.

‘Ah. I see that, beneath his britches, the human male is no different from the animals of the field. Very interesting, thank you, Mistress Smedley.’

She was about to close the book once more, when Mistress Smedley again said, ‘Turn the page.’

Martha sighed and turned the page. There was another silence. Martha went so pale that even her freckles began to fade.

‘On reflection, maybe waiting until the night before the
wedding to tell her was a mistake,’ whispered Mistress Smedley to Deborah.

‘You can’t … you can’t possibly … think that I … would … with a complete stranger?’ Martha managed to say.

‘I think you’d best give the Queen a glass of wine,’ Mistress Smedley told Deborah.

‘I don’t need wine. I need for this not to be happening.’ Martha turned another page. ‘Oh, saints alive, no.’

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ said Deborah, peering over her shoulder.

‘You know about this, Deborah?’ said Martha. ‘Who else knows?’

‘It is an essential part of married life,’ said Mistress Smedley.

‘Essential? You mean everybody does this?’

‘If you want to have children, it is required.’

‘If I want to have children? I have to have children, because I’m the Queen. My wishes on the matter do not come into it.’

‘It is your duty.’

Martha straightened, eyes narrowing. ‘Don’t talk to me about my duty. I know my duty. I do nothing except my duty. I spent half an hour this morning discussing hazelnut production with the deputy head kitchen gardener. That was my duty, as I understood it. Nobody said that this –’ Martha jabbed a finger at the book ‘– was part of my duty too.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mistress Smedley, ‘but it is the burden of womanhood.’

‘It’s really not that much of a burden,’ said Deborah.

Martha turned another page.

‘Jesus Lord of all, he puts that there as well? Is there no end to this?’

Mistress Smedley craned her neck to look at the drawing.

‘That one is not strictly necessary for the procurement of children.’

‘Then why do it?’

‘Men like it.’

‘And women?’

There was a pause. ‘It can be quite pleasurable,’ said Deborah at last.

‘You’re not even married!’ said Martha.

Deborah looked off to the side. ‘I mean, I’ve heard it can be,’ she mumbled.

‘I’m sure the Prince will be gentle with you,’ said Mistress Smedley.

‘Gentle? Gentle like breaking a horse? Gentle like when we force-feed the geese to make pâté? This –’ Martha pointed at the latest elaborately wrought illustration ‘– doesn’t look very gentle.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with giving it a bit of oomph,’ said Deborah.

Martha went to turn the page.

‘I’d advise that you skip the next one,’ said Mistress Smedley.

‘How much worse can it get?’

Martha turned the page.

‘Oh, that’s a good one,’ said Deborah.

‘I won’t do it,’ said Martha.

‘Sweetheart, you must,’ said Mistress Smedley.

‘I refuse. I’m the Queen.’

‘All the more reason that you must. There are some responsibilities that are greater even than that of a queen to her country, and those include the duty of a wife to her husband.’

‘Well then, I’m not getting married.’ Martha slammed the book shut with a triumphant expression.

But outside, the bugles were already heralding the arrival of Prince Edwin.

Edwin hadn’t ridden all the way to Puddock Castle. He’d been driven in a coach with eight horses that were replaced whenever they started to tire. It was his unbiased opinion that the horses got slower, fatter and lazier after they’d crossed the border from Tuft. But there was no way he was going to arrive at the castle in a carriage like some pathetic girl, so a little way down the road he’d got out and mounted his horse, Storm, also transported to Puddock by carriage. First impressions were very important. So a black stallion it was, ridden just far enough to work up a sweat and a bit of masculine odour. The horse, not him.

He reined in Storm just inside the front gate and surveyed his new castle. Loyalty to Tuft insisted that it wasn’t as good as the castle back home, but rivalry with his older brother, Leo, who had claimed that castle for himself, demanded that this one be better. It was undeniably bigger, which was a start. Perhaps once he’d made some improvements – knocked a few walls down, added some wings – he could assert its superiority and take the credit for himself, not Puddock.

He got down from Storm and handed the reins to a stable hand. Lined up by the main entrance to the castle were trumpet players or something, dressed in the red livery of the castle. Edwin didn’t care much for music, it seemed a pointless waste of noise, but he liked a fanfare when he arrived in a place, so that was fine. They could stand around and play whenever he came and went, unless he was sneaking out to visit some wench’s
bed. Kings didn’t have to sneak, of course, but Edwin liked sneaking. It added thrill to the chase. The livery he’d get changed to his colours. What were his colours? He didn’t need to have the same ones as Leo any more, crappy yellow and blue. He’d have black. That was dangerous. That said King.
Prince Consort
, he heard in his head, in Leo’s smug-boy voice.
Fuck off, Leo
.

He looked around, hoping to catch sight of his wife-to-be. He was going to have to beget some sprogs with her so he hoped she was at least vaguely shaggable. But there was no sign of her. Never mind; the servants were where the real action was, sextacularly speaking. Leo always got the best ones, back home, but here Edwin should have first dibs. He’d take a tour of the kitchens later, there were bound to be decent tits in there, and failing that, he’d get some in from the village. Did they have
droit de seigneur
in this godforsaken kingdom? If they didn’t, he’d institute it. He was going to be king, after all.
Prince Consort
. King.

A group of what appeared to be beggars were clustered in the courtyard, but as he was preparing to sweep past them, one broke away from the others and bowed.

‘The people of Puddock welcome Prince Edwin of Tuft!’ said the beggar.

‘Oh. Thanks,’ said Edwin, wondering if this decrepit old man was going to ask him for money.

‘I am Sir John Penrith, Chancellor of the Puddock Regency Council,’ the beggar declared. He gestured to the scrappy old men gathered behind him, and they bowed as best they could.
Christ
, thought Edwin,
this place is worse than I thought
.

‘So it’s the wedding, tomorrow, eh?’ he said. ‘I hope there’s a banquet, I could eat a horse. Not Storm. He’s a stallion, you know. I mean, I could eat a stallion, if I wanted to, but Storm’s my stallion and I don’t want to eat him. What I mean is, I’ve got a big appetite. Not just at table! I mean in bed. But in that case, not for horses.’

Sir John stared at him for several seconds. Just as Edwin was
about to conclude that the man was a halfwit, and explain the joke more slowly, Sir John gathered himself with a visible effort and said, ‘I trust you had a good journey.’

‘You trust right,’ said Edwin. ‘Though the real ride’s happening tomorrow night, if you know what I’m saying.’

This time Sir John only needed to blink once or twice before continuing. ‘Allow me to show you to your chambers,’ he said. He turned to go inside.

‘I’m not talking about horse riding,’ said Edwin, following him.

‘Indeed,’ said Sir John, climbing the front steps.

‘I’m talking about sex.’

Sir John didn’t reply. Edwin assumed he hadn’t heard, but he wasn’t repeating himself for this deaf old coot. He squared his shoulders and marched, no, swept into the castle. Unless marching was better.

If he looked up at the window of the tallest tower, he didn’t see anything there.

In the room at the top of the tower where she and Martha were now locked, Deborah was standing on a stool and leaning as far out of the window as she could, which is to say that she had her left cheek pressed up to the bars, with her nose and eyelashes protruding just far enough to be considered free of incarceration.

‘He doesn’t look too bad,’ she said.

Martha was sitting leaning against the wall, eating candied fruit in as disconsolate a way as she could, given that she really liked candied fruit.

‘He’s quite good-looking, really,’ said Deborah. ‘For a prince.’

‘Excuse me?’ said Martha through a sugary mouthful of satsuma peel.

‘I mean, a prince of Tuft. They’re all inbred there. No chins. But he’s got a chin, quite a big one, actually.’

‘Please don’t talk about his chin.’ Some of the drawings she had seen had involved chins in places where chins should not be.

‘Come and have a look at him,’ said Deborah. ‘He’s honestly not that bad. He’s still got most of his hair.’

Martha shook her head. ‘No point.’

‘You’re going to have to marry someone,’ said Deborah. ‘If you want to rule. And you have to rule, you’re the Queen. And you know they’re not going to let you choose.’

Martha didn’t want to admit it, but Deborah was right.

‘There’ll be a list,’ Deborah went on. ‘You say no to this one, they’ll just go to the next one. You could do worse. I’ve heard things about Prince Cuthbert of Brack, on the servant grapevine. He makes the pictures in that book look tame.’

‘Don’t talk about that book,’ said Martha.

‘May I borrow it?’ said Deborah. ‘If you’re done with it?’

Martha shuddered. ‘By all means.’

‘Mistress Smedley says the pictures were done by monks,’ Deborah mused. ‘I wonder how they do their research?’

‘I dread to think.’ Martha chewed on a sliver of lime. ‘So what does the servant grapevine say about Prince Edwin?’

‘They say he’s not as bad as his brother, Leo.’