Royal Feud

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

n awful silence cloaked the hall after Ishton's abrupt departure, punctured only Aby Humillated, Sh by Gerald's braying laughter. Humiliated, Hermione bowed her head. She sank "Lord Gerald." Wyham's voice cut through her brother's awful mockery. "You obviously do not know King Henry very well. One thing he prizes very highly is

chivalrous manners. You might keep that in mind for the future." Hermione tried to shut out Gerald's voice as he muttered curses under his breath. She could feel the covert glances of her husband's retainers as they resumed their meal and conversations. To her left, Gerald called the butler over to refill his wine. He drained his cup, burped noisily, and then wiped his mouth on the tablecloth.

"Hermione," Lucy said, "I am so glad you have come to Ishton. I have always wanted a daughter, but God did not bless me with any more children after Delvin was born. Now you shall be my daughter."

The silence at the table stretched awkwardly. She needed to make some response. "Thank you, milady," Hermione said. "I have planned a traditional Twelfth Night celebration this evening, after the

wedding feast. I have hired a group of minstrels to entertain us. They make a circuit in

this region and are very talented. Do you enjoy music, my dear?"

#Aye."

"I quite adore music and dancing myself. Unfortunately, as my son could tell you, I was not blessed with any musical abilities, much to my regret. I always wished I could play an instrument, but I am so hopeless I cannot even carry a tune."

The smell of the rich food in front of Hermione caused bile to burn in her chest and smolder in the back of her throat. Was he going to come back? She glanced over at Gerald as his teeth tore into a piece of meat, the grease dripping down his chin. Her stomach twisted as if someone were wringing it mercilessly between two closed fists. She had to warn Ishton. When was he coming back?

"Do you play an instrument, my dear?" Lucy asked.

Hermione glanced furtively at Gerald. She could not reveal her love for playing the lute

without risking the consequences. "Nay." The door of the donjon swung open and she tensed. She stared as a man entered, then deflated when she realized he was not Ishton. Where was he? She had to tell him what her father was planning.

"Although I was not blessed with any musical talent, God did see fit to give me a gift for healing. I have quite an extensive herb garden under cultivation. I use the herbs to make poultices and elixirs to treat the sick and injured in the castle and the village. Are there any pursuits you particularly enjoy, Hermione?" Lucy asked.

She shook her head as she pleated the black fabric of her kirtle covering her tights, smoothed it out, and then pleated it again. Head bent, she stared vacantly at her hands. Fear's cadence matched the beat of her heart.

When Delvin returned to the great hall, the floor had been cleared, the trestle tables stacked along the walls, and an apple tree brought in for the Twelfth Night celebrations. He breathed in the strong scent of cinnamon from the mulled wine filling the air as he strolled toward the fireplace where his mother stood with Hermione and Wyham. Delvin bowed to the ladies when he joined them.

"Delvin," his mother said, "now that you are here, we can wassail the tree."

"As you wish, Mother."

He ignored the reproach in her tone and stood with his back to the fire as he searched the hall until he located his brother-in-law standing with his men. Gerald said something that caused the other men to roar with laughter. Everyone else in the hall seemed to be giving the Morety group a wide berth or was trying to ignore them. As Delvin watched, a servant filled Gerald's goblet and he drained his wine in one long drink. Delvin clenched his hands into fists at his side.

"Come, my dear." Lucy took Hermione's hand and led her toward the tree. "After you, milord," Delvin said to Wyham, sweeping his arm toward the center of the hall.

The men followed the women toward the tree. They each accepted from the butler a cup filled with spiced wine and three pieces of seed cake. Delvin stood on Hermione's right side as they waited for the rest of the company to

accept their cups. When everyone was gathered around the tree, Delvin lifted his cup.

"Waes hael!" he shouted. "Be well!"

His retainers lifted their cups to him and replied, “Drinc hael! Drink and be healthy!"

He spoke the traditional toast in a loud voice.

"Let every man take off his hat And shout out to th'old apple tree

Old apple tree we wassail thee And hoping thou will bear."

A loud cheer went up as the people toasted the tree, draining their cups. Delvin ate a piece of the cake, then poured the other two pieces into the large tub in which the tree was planted. All around him his people drained their cups and tossed the seed cake at the base of the tree or put pieces of the wine-soaked cake into the crooks of the tree's branches. To Delvin, the gaiety seemed forced, a far cry from the boisterous celebrations they usually enjoyed at Twelfth Night. His people were obviously as wary and distrusting of this marriage as he was himself.

He turned to Hermione, who stood looking down into her cup, appearing lost and forlorn. "Drink to a good crop, Hermione. Tis good luck." He watched as she hesitantly took a sip of the spiced wine. "Now pour out your cup on the tree's roots."

He frowned as he watched her follow his instructions. Did they not have this tradition at Morety? Surely it was a normal custom in most of England. Delvin gestured for Hermione to precede him as they moved away from the tree back to

the fireplace. Behind them two burly men lifted the tree onto a wheelbarrow to remove

it from the hall. The discordant screech of a fiddle and the shrill, metallic timbre of a

psaltery could be heard as the musicians tuned their instruments.

His mother caught his arm. "You should lead Hermione out for the first dance."

"I do know my duty, Mother." She raised one eyebrow and he flushed. How could she still make him feel guilty with just one look? He was not ten years old any longer.

When the floor was clear, the musicians began a lively tune. The soaring notes of a recorder blended with the lower tones of the fiddle, while the persistent beat of a tambourine undergirded the melody. Delvin turned toward Hermione, but she kept her face averted from his.

"Come, milady," Delvin said. "We must begin the dancing." He held out his hand

to her.

She glanced briefly up at him, her eyes wide. Delvin felt her tremors when she placed her hand in his. Leading Hermione into the middle of the floor, he greeted Hugh's wife, Elizabeth, as she took his right hand. Wyham fell into position on Hermione's left, with Lucy on his other side. The rest of their dance ring promptly formed, as did two additional rings of similar size. The minstrels struck up the chorus of the song, and Delvin started the simple steps of the dance.

Pain pounded in Hermione's head in a relentless counterpoint to the beat of the loud, joyous music. Hermione had not been able to talk to Ishton. He had danced with her several times, but each time the dance was over, he swiftly excused himself. With all the noise in the hall she would not have been able to speak privately with him anyway. She was not just being a coward, she consoled herself. She had to wait for an opportune moment to warn him. At least they were not yet in immediate danger. Gerald and her

father would strike in the dead of night. Hermione stood with Lucy and Wyham, looking around at the crowd. Wine and ale were flowing freely, and the people who had been restrained at the beginning of the evening were now enthusiastically participating in the dancing.