Lady Desdea awaited a response, but Madouc sat staring blankly across the room. Lady Desdea peered close, then called out sharply: "Well then, Princess Madouc? Will you give me an answer?"
"Certainly, whenever you wish! Say what you wish to say!"
"I have already spoken at length."
"Evidently my thoughts were elsewhere, and I did not hear you."
Lady Desdea's hands twitched. She said in a metallic voice: Come. The reception will be underway in short order. For once in your life you must evince the conduct to be expected of a royal princess, so that you will make a good impression."
Madouc said in an even voice: "I am not anxious to make a good impression. Someone might want to marry me."
Lady Desdea confined her response to a sarcastic sniff. "Come; we are expected."
Lady Desdea let the way: down the passage to the main gallery and the Great Hall, with Madouc lagging behind, using a loping bent-kneed gait which Lady Desdea ascribed to sheer perversity and ignored. Folk had already gathered in the Great Hall, where they stood in groups, greeting acquaintances, appraising new arrivals, bowing stiffly to adversaries, ignoring their enemies. Each wore his most splendid garments, hoping to command, at minimum, attention or, better, admiration or, at best, envy. As the notables moved from place to place, silks and satins swirled and caught the glow of light; the room swam with color, so vivid and rich that each hue displayed a vitality of its own: lavender, purple, dead black; intense saturated yellow and mustard-ocher; vermilion, scarlet, the carmine red of pomegranate; all manner of blues: sky-blue, smalt, mid-ocean blue, beetle-wing black-blue; greens in every range - Bowing, nodding and smiling, Lady Desdea took Madouc to the royal dais, where a pretty little throne of gilded wood and ivory, with a pad of red felt on the seat and at the back, awaited her occupation.
Lady Desdea spoke in a confidential mutter: "For your information, Prince Bittern of Pomperol will be on hand today, also Prince Chalmes of Montferrone and Prince Garcelin of Aquitaine and several others of high degree."
Madouc stared at her blankly. "As you know, these persons are of no interest to me."
Lady Desdea smiled her tight grim smile. "Nevertheless, they will come before you, and look you over with care, to gauge your charm and discover your attributes. They will learn whether you are pocked or cross-eyed; wizened or wild; afflicted with sores or mentally deficient, with high ears and low forehead. Now then! Compose yourself and sit quietly."
Madouc scowled. "No one else is on hand. Why should I sit here, like a bird on a post? It is foolishness. The seat looks uncomfortable. Why did they not give me a nice cushion? Both King Casrnir and Queen Sollace sit on pillows four inches thick. There is only a bit of red cloth on my seat."
"No matter! You will be pressing your bottom against it, not your eyes! Be seated, if you will!"
"This is the most uncomfortable throne in the world!"
"So it may be. Still, do not squirm around so, as if already you wished to visit the privy."
"For a fact, I do."
"Why did you not think of the matter before? There is no time for that now. The king and queen are entering the chamber!"
"You may be sure that both have emptied themselves to their heart's content," said Madouc. "I want to do the same. Is that not my privileged right, as a royal princess?"
"I suppose so. Hurry, then."
Madouc went off without haste, and was in no hurry to return. Meanwhile the king and queen moved slowly across the hall, pausing to exchange a word or two with especially favored personages.
In due course Madouc returned. With an opaque glance toward Lady Desdea she sat upon the gilt and ivory throne, and after a long-suffering look up toward the ceiling, she settled herself.
The king and queen took their places; Prince Cassander entered from the side, wearing a fine buff jacket, breeches of black twill embroidered with gold thread, a shirt of white lawn. He marched briskly across the hall, acknowledging the salutes of friends and acquaintances with debonair gestures, and took his place to the left of King Casmir.
Sir Mungo of Hatch, the Lord High Seneschal, came forward. A pair of heralds blew an abbreviated fanfare, the ‘Apparens Regis', on the clarions and the hall became silent.
In sonorous tones Sir Mungo addressed the assemblage: "I speak with the voice of the royal family! We bid you welcome to Sarris! We are joyful that you may share with us this most felicitous occasion-to wit: the eighteenth birthday of our beloved Prince Cassander!"
Madouc scowled and dropped her chin so that it rested on her clavicle. On sudden thought, she glanced sidewise and met the ophidian stare of Lady Desdea. Madouc sighed and gave a small despairing shrug. As if with great effort, she straightened in the chair and sat erect.
Sir Mungo concluded his remarks; the heralds blew another brief fanfare, and so commenced the reception. As the guests stepped forward, Sir Mungo called out their names and degrees of nobility; the persons so identified paid their respects first to Prince Cassander, then to King Casmir, then to Queen Sollace and finally, in more or less perfunctory style, to Princess Madouc, who responded, generally with leaden disinterest, in a manner only barely acceptable to Queen Sollace and Lady Desdea.
The reception continued for what seemed to Madouc an eternity. Sir Mungo's voice droned on at length; the gentlemen and their ladies passing before her began to look much alike. At last, for entertainment, Madouc began matching each newcomer with a beast or bird, so that this gentleman was Sir Bullock and that one Sir Weasel, while here was Lady Puffin and there was Lady Titmouse. On sudden thought Madouc looked to her right, where Lady Crow watched her with minatory eyes, then left, where sat Queen Milkcow.
The game palled. Madouc's haunches began to ache; she squirmed first to one side, then the other, then slouched back into the depths of the throne. By chance she met Lady Desdea's stare, and for a moment watched the angry signals with bland wonder. At last, with a painful sigh, Madouc squirmed herself once again erect.
With nothing better to do, Madouc looked around the hall, mildly curious as to which of the gentlemen present might be Prince Bittern of Pomperol, whose good opinion Lady Desdea considered so necessary. Perhaps he had already presented himself without her taking notice. Possible, thought Madouc. If so, she had surely failed to charm Prince Bittern, or win his admiration.
By the wall stood three youths, all evidently of high estate, in conversation with a gentleman of intriguing appearance though, if subtle indications were to be trusted, of no exalted rank. He was tall, spare, with short dust-colored locks clustered close around a long droll face. His bright gray eyes were alive with vitality; his mouth was wide and seemed to be compressed always against a quirk of inner amusement. His garments, in the context of the occasion, seemed almost plain; despite his apparent lack of formal rank, he carried himself with no trace of deference for the noble company in which he found himself. Madouc watched him with approval. He and the three youths, so it seemed, had only just arrived; they still wore the garments in which they had traveled. The three were of an age to be the princes Lady Desdea had mentioned. One was gaunt, narrow- shouldered and ungainly, with lank yellow hair, a long pale chin and a drooping woebegone nose. Could this be Prince Bittern? At this moment he turned to dart a somewhat furtive glance toward Madouc, who scowled, annoyed to be caught looking in his direction.