The Complete Tawny Man Trilogy: Fool’s Errand, The Golden Fool, Fool’s Fate. Robin Hobb
smiled. She blushed. He set the feather back on the cloth and shook a reproachful finger at it as if it were at fault. Then he selected another one. Boldly he held it against the sleeve of her gown, murmuring some comparison of colour. He gathered others from the cloth, arranged them in a sort of feather bouquet. With the tip of one forefinger, he turned her face to look at his, and then, by a trick I could not see, fastened the feathers into her hair so that they hung down and followed the line of her cheek.
Civil rose abruptly and stalked away. His mother spoke to a woman at her side, who moved swiftly to intercept him before he left the chamber. There were low voiced words between them, and the young man’s tone was not calm. I could not follow what he said, for Lord Golden’s words rose over general conversation to proclaim, ‘Would that I had a looking-glass to show you, but you must be content to see how well this ornament becomes you by looking into my eyes.’
Earlier in the day, I had been appalled at how brazenly she had stalked Lord Golden and at how willing she had been to throw over her young suitor for the strange nobleman. Now I almost pitied Sydel. One hears of birds charmed by snakes, though I have never seen such a thing. What I witnessed now was more like a flower leaning towards light. She absorbed his attention and blossomed in its warmth. In the space of a few moments, her girlish infatuation with his age and wealth and fine ways had been transformed into a more womanly warmth and fascination with him. I knew with crawling certainty that she was his to bed, if he chose. Should he tap at her chamber door tonight, she would admit him without hesitation.
‘He goes too far.’ Laurel’s breathless whisper was tinged with horror as she strolled past me.
‘He excels at that,’ I murmured in reply. I shifted my shoulders in the confines of my gaudy jacket. My pretence at being Lord Golden’s bodyguard might become real tonight. Certainly the look Civil shot him promised murder.
When Lady Bresinga announced that it was time to dine, Civil made the foolish mistake of hesitating. Before he had even the chance churlishly to refuse to escort Sydel to the table, his rival had offered his arm and the girl had taken it. This left Civil duty-bound to escort his slighted mother as they followed their esteemed guest and his prey into the dining hall.
I tried to rein my emotions in and be a stoic observer of that dinner. Lord Golden’s tactic revealed much to me. Sydel’s parents were obviously torn between courtesy to Lady Bresinga and her son, and the enticing prospect of their daughter winning the attention of this extremely wealthy nobleman. Lord Golden was a far more desirable catch than young Civil, yet they were not unmindful of the danger to their young daughter. To catch a nobleman’s eye is not the same as to have the pledge of one. There was a danger that he might toy with her and ruin her for future marriage. It was a dangerous line for a young girl to walk, and in the way that Lady Grayling picked her bread to pieces I plainly saw her mother’s doubts that Sydel could toe it.
Avoin and Laurel tried desperately to kindle a conversation about the day’s hunt, and the talk lurched along, but Lord Golden and Sydel were too deeply engrossed in their own quiet talk to pay any attention. Civil, seated to the other side of Sydel, was ignored by both of them. Avoin was holding forth on the uses of rue in training cats, for all knew that a cat would avoid anything marked with the essence of the herb. Laurel said that onion was sometimes used for the same purpose. Lord Golden offered Sydel a titbit from his plate, and then stared in rapt fascination as the girl ate it. He was drinking heavily tonight, glass after glass, and to all appearances, he was actually pouring it all down his throat. I felt anxiety. The Fool, drunk, had always been both unpredictable and volatile. Would Lord Golden have more restraint when in his cups?
Civil’s anger must have flared, for I felt a querying Wit-echo from something. I could not catch the thought, only the emotion that accompanied it. Something was fully willing to rend Lord Golden to shreds on Civil’s behalf. I did not doubt that his hunting cat was his Wit-beast. For that unguarded moment of fury, the connection between them sang with bloodlust. It was quenched in an instant, but there was no mistaking what it was. The boy was Witted. And Lady Bresinga? I looked past her, watching her without seeming to. I felt no trace of the Wit from her, but she radiated maternal disapproval of her son’s lapse. Because he had betrayed his Old Blood to any who might be aware of such things? Or because his displeasure showed so plainly on his face? Betraying one’s emotions so blatantly was not genteel.
I stood, as I had the previous night, behind Lord Golden’s chair all through the meal. I learned little from the words exchanged that night, but much from the glances. Lord Golden’s scandalous behaviour both fascinated and horrified the other guests. Quiet words were exchanged, as were shocked glances. Lord Grayling, at one point, sat breathing through his white-pinched nostrils for several moments while his wife spoke frantically to him in an undertone. She appeared willing to gamble the Bresingas’ good will for the possible benefit of a better match. Through all this interplay, I sifted expressions and exchanges, looking for some sign of who was Witted. It was not information I could quantify, but before the dinner was over, I was satisfied that both Civil and Lady Bresinga were. I was equally certain their Huntsman was not. Of the other guests at their table, there were two I suspected of the Wit. A certain Lady Jerrit had something of the cat in her mannerisms. She was perhaps unaware of how she breathed in the scent of every dish before she ventured to taste it. Her spouse, a hale and hearty man, had a trick of turning his head sideways to the leg of fowl he was devouring, as if he had sharper teeth there with which to scissor the meat free. Small habits, but telling. As the Prince had fled Buckkeep to Galekeep, so he might, when driven from Galekeep, go to another Wit-friendly holding. These two lived to the south. The Prince’s trail led north, but that did not mean he would not circle back.
I noticed another thing as well. Lady Bresinga’s eyes came often to settle on me, and I did not think she was admiring my gaudy garments. She looked like a woman trying to recall something. I was almost certain I had never met her in my other life as FitzChivalry. But to be almost certain of something means that there is always a squirming of doubt in the back of the mind. For a time, I kept my head slightly lowered and my eyes cast to one side. Only after I observed the others did I realize what a wolf-like attitude that was. When next she looked at me, I met her eyes boldly and stared back. I was not so bold as to smile at her, but I deliberately widened my eyes, feigning an interest in her. Her affront at Lord Golden’s bold servant was plain. Catlike, she unfocused her eyes and looked through me. In that glance, I was finally sure of her. Old Blood.
I wondered if she was the woman that had captivated my prince’s fancy. Certainly, she was attractive. Her full lips hinted at sensuality. Dutiful would not be the first young man to fall victim to a knowledgeable older woman. Had that been her aim in giving the cat to him? To seduce him and win his young heart, so that no matter where he was wed, she would always keep his heart? It would explain why he had come here when he had fled Buckkeep. But, I reflected, it would not explain his unfulfilled passion. No. If she had intended to seduce the Prince, she would have moved swiftly to entangle him as deeply as possible. There was something else here, something strange, as the wolf had said.
A brief flip of Lord Golden’s hand at the end of the meal dismissed me. I went, but reluctantly. I wanted to witness whatever reactions his abominable behaviour might bring. The diners would move on to other amusements now; music, games of chance, and conversation. I went to the kitchen, and again was offered a choice of the feast’s remains. There had been a piglet tonight, cooked whole, and plenty of tender meat and crisp skin lay scattered among the bones on the platter. A sauce of sour apples and berries had accompanied it. This, with bread and soft white cheese and several mugs of ale made a more than adequate meal. It might have been more enjoyable if Lord Golden’s man had not been taken to task over his master’s behaviour.
Civil and Sydel, I was informed sternly by Lebven, had been affianced almost from birth. Well, if not formally, at least it was common knowledge among all the folk of both households that the two were intended for one another. His mother’s house and Lord Grayling’s family had always been on the best of terms, and the two estates were adjacent to one another. Why should not Grayling’s daughter benefit from Lady Bresinga’s rapid rise in the world? Old friends should help one another. What was my master thinking, to come between them? Could his intentions be honourable? Would he steal young Civil’s bride from him,