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In the Great Hall the trestle tables had been pulled out from the walls and set with trenchers. Serving maids carried in pots of food and baskets of bread, and set them on the table while fending off the groping hands of the soldiers and lesser servants. Lord Guerney’s table was up on the dais, laid with a tablecloth and set with roast meats. At the other end, by the door to the courtyard, two Silent Monks and a beggar waited for charitable scraps.
In Songless Castle, the Silent Monks had their own kitchen and dining hall, and they fed the poor with their leavings.
The servant pointed us toward the table furthest from the dais. Charles and Jason shoved aside two grubby tradesmen to make room for all of us, then proceeded to grab all the food they could reach. Charles snagged all the choice bits of meat from the pot and piled them on my trencher, then his own.
One of the serving maids fixed him with a cold eye.
"Official food taster," he gurgled, his mouth full .
The woman’s eyes moved onto me. They were Outlander eyes, green and rimmed with gold. Her thin lips – they matched her narrow, sharp-featured face – curved into a smile. "Ye’re new," she said.
I just stared back.
"He can’t speak," Charles said helpfully. "But he can use his hands."
Her smile broke open into a grin. "Can he, now? Ay’ll have to see that for meself."
"Aye," Jason agreed.
She winked at me and moved on.
Jason’s hands slammed between my shoulder blades. "That’s the way. Now git one fer me!"
I looked down at my plate and began to pick at my food. Eating in public is not easy for me. Fortunately Charles attracted all the attention at the table away from me by asking Jason questions about what I should do with the girl, and Jason entertained the table by answering in graphic detail.
Suddenly the sound of a reed pipe cut through the din and into my bones. The piper was standing in the center of the room, his fingers dancing over the holes while the notes wove a spell. His right hand was toward me, and I could see tattooed on it a harp with three strings. This was a Guild Bard, from the path stolen from me.
It spoke of Lord Guerney’s prestige that he could command a third-level Bard for his dinner entertainment. It’s spoke of the Bard’s power that the room quieted around him. He finished his tune, lowered his pipe, and spoke.
That face, that voice – coals and ice scraped my soul. The sweet tenor voice washed away years like so much travel dust, and I saw before me a barefoot Bard-in-training, my laughing, fighting, traveling companion of many years. His black hair was now combed straight, his clothes were tightly woven and trimmed with gold thread, and he wore boots as fine as the ones my Christian lord had forced on my feet, but he still moved lithely and spoke sweetly.
"My Lord Reinard, this evening I have prepared a special ballad for you, The Story of Sir Rowen and the Two Red Knights."
I choked, but no one paid me mind other than Charles, who patted me half-heartedly on my back.
The Bard lifted a lute and began to sing, his voice shredding my heart. It wasn’t just because I would never stand where he did, molding the song with my own voice, or that his presence taunted me with memories of my years in Slattern. No, it was something much deeper, much darker.
That was my ballad.
