Philippe of Morgarath

Chapter Fifteen

The table where they were seated, was huge to say the least. And it was completely covered with food, silverware, and porcelain. In the middle of the room, hung a beautiful chandelier. The candles were lit, and the light shone through the hundreds of crystals, making the shadows dance all around them.

At one end of the table, they set up for five. This is where the four men sat down, waiting patiently for both Merya and the Delelia family. The other end of the table, which was quite far away from them, was set for four. Philippe expected that’s where the family would sit down. If they would arrive at all, that is.

‘Where are they?’ he said impatiently.

‘And where’s Merya?’ Reagon added. ‘It’s not like her to be late. I swear to the gods, if this is a trap..’

Philippe instantly shook his head. ‘A trap for what? What would the family want with Merya? Do you expect a wealthy, prosperous family to just pick her up and run away with her?’

Reagon made an unhappy sound. He took his knife, and started cutting in the table, right next to his plate. ‘You never know’, he said, obviously not content. ‘I do not trust the rich.’

They all looked up when the doors to the room opened. A lady appeared. Her always pinned up hair, hung over her shoulders in beautiful curls. She was wearing a wide, beige dress, with gold attached to it. In her hands she wore a fan, which covered half her face. Nonetheless, the men all saw the anger in her eyes.

Next to her stood two older women. Both of them looked at the girl in between them, but it seemed like they were checking up on her.

To Philippe’s content, he saw one of the women tap on her leg, most likely to tell Merya to start walking. Slowly, very slowly, Merya did. The sounds of her heels echoed in the big room.

After Merya took place at the table, the ladies walked out of the room. She instantly dropped the huge fan, and started plucking on her curls.

‘You look beautiful, Merya’, Philippe said sincere. He couldn’t help but smile playfully.

‘Wait’, Reagon said. ‘Merya?’ He looked around. ‘Why do you call this attractive young lady Merya? Where’s that little rascal, any way?’

Merya aimed her anger-filled eyes towards the big brute. The smile instantly dropped from his face, which made the one on Philippe's bigger.

‘After today, no one speaks a word of this’, she hissed. ‘Or I will cut your throats when you sleep.’

‘Ah’, Reagon responded. ‘It truly is Merya, how wonderful.’

The loud sound of trumpets made them all look up. The doors opened for a second time, but this time there was a man that walked into the room. It was obvious that it was the lord of the residence, Twighn Delelia. You could see it by the colours he was wearing. It looked like his chest was swollen, because he pushed it forward like a duck. To everyone’s surprise, he wore heels, just like Merya.

After him, Margareth followed. In her hands she wore a big fan, just like Merya. Because of it, half of her face was covered. Her hair was pinned up very high on top of her head, and she was wearing a big red dress.

Behind her the friends saw two children. The oldest one being their son, Manoc Delelia. He was four summers younger than Philippe, but the regent-son instantly noticed the arrogance on his face. Just like his father, he had his chest puffed forward. His tread burst with confidence.

Behind him his little sister, named after her mother, Margaretha. She was twelve summers young, and the only one of them that did not seem arrogant. At least not from the first glance.

Philippe smiled, when he saw Davon change the way he sat. It was obvious that Philippe was not the only one that noticed her beauty.

The family sat down, in the same order they walked into the room. After they were seated, Twighn said quite loud: ‘Welcome, son of Malowen of Morgarath.’

Philippe smiled, and nodded.

‘What can I do for the regency?’ Philippe noticed that the man said the regency, instead of my regent. Or my regency, which was more common to say.

‘It’s a long story, my Lord’, he said, hoping to be friendly. ‘But I was hoping for support from your house, to undergo a journey to the mainland to inventarise rumours of Muerthalls gathering.’

Twighn nodded, and took his glass of wine. After three sips he said: ‘And how big is your army?’

Philippe tried not to sound insecure. ‘You’re looking at it’, he smiled. Twighn smiled, and Phil was sure that he recognized disapproval on his face.

‘And why do you want to go to the mainland fort his threat?’ the man asked, without giving answer to the first question.

‘Well, as you know’, Philippe started. ‘Muerthalls have been chased off of Morwerth grounds, hundreds of years ago. According to stories, they scattered and their threat seized to exist. Mostly because they are dumb.’ He shrugged.

‘But now I keep hearing stories that they are gathering. And preparing to take back their lands.’

Twighn laughed, much to Philippe’s dislike. ‘But my boy’, he said… Philippe tried not to comment to the boy part. ‘Muerthalls can not sail, nor swim. Why does the regency think they are a threat to us?’

Philippe continued. ‘I am not sure how they will do it, but I am quite convinced that they will find a way. I fear they will either attack Borwalèn, Nealèn, or come straight to us. That’s why I need as many men as I can gather.’

Twighn shrugged, and put a piece of meat in his mouth. After he swallowed it, he asked: ‘And even if they do, they will first reach the island of Talyba, is that not correct?’

He waited until Philippe hesitantly nodded. ‘And after that Twernabean’, Twighn continued. ‘And then Tyrewell, with the house of Gibbëon to it’s lead. It’s a long haul before they reach either your island, or mine. So what are you worried about, regentson?’

For a couple of seconds, Phil did not know what to say. He shook his head and said: ‘Wait… what?’ forgetting all of his manners, quite unprofessionally.

‘I am worried about my people’, he put both hands down on the table before him.

Twighn shook his head as well. ‘It’s not your people, Philippe. It’s your father’s. And after your father passes, it will be your brother’s.’

Philippe jumped up from his chair. ‘Of course it’s my people. I do not need to rule them to care’, he defended himself. ‘It’s my people as much as it is yours, lord Delelia. We have to protect everyone in Mowerth, not just our own.’

Twighn’s smile disappeared. He said, solemnly: ‘I will speak to my council, young regentson. When I have made my decision, I will notify you.’

Philippe noticed his throat got dry. He truly did not understand the posh man before him.

‘You are excused’, Twighn said, letting Philippe and the others know they had to leave. Philippe stopped Reagon when he opened up his mouth, it was obvious that the man would say something about the fact that they had not even eaten yet. But Philippe’s pride took away his hunger.

Angry, he walked out of the room, followed by his hungry friends.