“Aye, that is true enough,” Wymer acknowledged grudgingly. “Good master Robkin.”
“Aha! Aha!” The jester bounded about the ring, appealing to the crowd. “Didst not thou hear that good King Wymer did promise me a boon?” The crowd murmured back an assent, curious at this late turn in proceedings. “Then, this I ask of thee my King,” the jester suddenly boomed. “That I am given sway over this tournament, in my official office of Lord of Misrule!”
Una felt the sudden frisson of excitement that ran throughout the audience. Lord of Misrule? That put a different slant on proceedings. Suddenly, Robkin held his hands out before him and clapped for attention. “Bring forth the prospect,” he yelled.
The acrobats and jugglers all looked around in great confusion, before suddenly converging on poor Otho, who was stood watching from the sidelines with some bemusement. They seized him now by the arms and bore him to stand in front of the fool.
“This?” howled Robkin. “You dare bring this before me? Nay, say it is not so!” The crowd reacted with amusement as he walked around Otho examining him like a bull at the fayre, prodding him with his long bauble stick’. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “This will never do!” He held up his hand for silence as the sounds of mirth grew from his audience. He stood a moment, cupping his chin as though in rapt concentration. Suddenly he spoke, with great deliberation. “His legs, in truth, are not bandy enough for to make him a goodly man in the stable,” he announced, slapping Otho’s calves until he was forced to jump from side to side to avoid the jingling stick, as the crowd dissolved into gales of laughter. “No, no,” he added, walking around to Otho’s back again and gesturing toward his thighs. “I mislike his stance. I’ faith, ’tis too wide! He’ll ne’er stand guard at the stable door, in truth, he’s more suited to a pigsty!”
Wymer guffawed, then seemed to remember his company. “Foolish fellow,” he said lamely.
“This groom,” the jester pronounced grandly, “is a fat-kidneyed fustilugs, unfit to mount so fine and spirited a filly.” Una could have sworn that every eye present swiveled to look at her. They knew full well her unkind nickname. There could be no mistaking that she was the butt of this joke. “I like him not!” yelled the Robkin. “I’ll see that Northern mare saddled by a worthy rider, you just see if I do not!”
Una tried to not let her dismay show, as the crowd erupted in howls and whoops of laughter. The time she had spent in the company of rough soldiers had helped her to turn a deaf ear to many a bawdy joke or rough speech. Even so, she had to make a concerted effort not to stiffen in the face of such impertinence, if not downright insult.
“I invoke the law of reversal,” the fool said knocking his staff against the ground three times. A whispering started about the arena.
“The law of reversal?” Wymer repeated slowly. He looked at Una blankly. “What does the fellow mean by that?” Una could make no answer, for her heart was suddenly in her throat.
“He who is first, is now last,” proclaimed Robkin triumphantly. “And he who was cast down in that lowest of positions, is by misrule magic, elevated now to the most revered and fortunate of men!”
A wondering chatter began in the stalls as everyone whispered and nudged each other in speculation.
“He who is first is now last,” repeated the King with a fierce frown. “I don’t think I quite …”
Una peered down at the ring and saw Earl Vawdrey gesturing to some guards. For one horrible moment she thought they were going to arrest Otho, but instead they plunged into the audience, and Una watched with a sort of horrified fascination the bizarre turn of events that saw them drag five minutes later another knight altogether into the ring. He still held a flagon of ale to his lips and held a half-eaten pastry between his fingers. He had now shed most of his armor, but still wore the shoulder plates and his chainmail vest.
“Eh, what’s all this?” she heard Sir Armand de Bussell ask, as he was marched into the center of the ring by an armed guard.
“Good Lord!” thundered King Wymer. “Last place was De Bussell!” He reached out a hand to grab her sleeve and wag it. “De Bussell, I say!” Una looked at him speechlessly. Clearly the King was in the grip of some deep emotion. His eyes glistened and his face glowed. “By gads, I’ll give Vawdrey a dukedom for this!” he said, his voice rasping. “Or mayhap,” he reflected. “He’ll want a title for that rackety youngest brother of his. Viscount Vawdrey or some such thing.”
Back in the ring, the jester was turning somersaults, before he approached the bewildered De Bussell.
“Sir Armand de Bussell,” announced Robkin, puffing out his chest. “Have I got glad tidings for you this day!” He looked about him slyly at the audience who were starting to break out into cheers. “For you thought you were cast down in the doldrums, the lowest among this fine company.” He struck up a benevolent attitude. “Little did you expect, the miraculous transformation of your fortune!” Trumpeters blasted at this point, having picked up some cue, and a banner unfurled from the royal box. Una leaned over and to her astonishment, saw the large green wyvern of House Blechmarsh hanging in all its glory. She blinked, reflecting that this particular standard had not been displayed in a Southern palace in some five hundred years. True, they had expunged the golden crown that should sit at the beast’s brow, but even so, it was an astonishing turn of events.
“I don’t quite follow …,” she faltered, not able to believe that she was to be offered a reprieve from the cruel fate that had so nearly befallen her. She started again. “Am I to understand—?”
But the King was not attending her, instead he was snapping his fingers to attract the attention of one of his pages. “Fetch us some refreshment, boy! Honeyed mead and cakes!”
Una turned back to gaze down at Sir Armand whose expression of affable bewilderment was now being replaced with one of stunned disbelief. He was saying something now, his hands waving. It looked very much like a spirited denial of the great honor done him. Una swallowed and dragged her eyes away from his protests. Poor man. She felt bad for him, indeed she did. Doubtless this unlooked-for distinction was quite unwelcome to him, quite the opposite of what she herself felt. With his own patent lack of experience in the field, he could not have expected to win her hand. He must have entered simply for the experience and now he found himself saddled with an unwanted bride.
For Una’s part, she felt almost sick with relief. Her eyes scanned the arena anxiously as she sought out her half-brother. She saw his expression dark with rage, as Earl Vawdrey drew him to one side. Otho was bright red with anger, his mouth working furiously as he gave vent to his wrath. How like their father he looked at this minute, Una thought despairingly. She had seen their royal father’s rages too many times to think this storm would pass quickly.
Una watched tensely as the King’s chief advisor appeared to quietly listen for a while, then all of a sudden, lift his head and say something that made Otho’s expression blanch. Otho staggered a little, his face white as chalk as he stared at Lord Vawdrey who was now all smiles again. Was it purely a figment of Una’s imagination or did his smile look a little … sinister? Una didn’t think she was fanciful, but certainly something about his expression and his stillness was disconcerting.