The rest of the diners were seated at the table that made up the stem of the T, in descending order of importance. Will was placed a little more than halfway up the stem. As a Ranger, he would normally be accorded a seat at the head table-he'd had to resist the automatic urge to move toward it. Mistress Barry, supervising the serving of the meal, indicated his place at the table and he found himself seated with several of the lower-ranking Craftmasters and their wives. No one spoke to him. But then, he realized, they didn't speak to one another either, other than muttered requests for condiments and dishes to be passed.
As usual, Will silently cursed the flamboyant jongleur's outfit he wore, with its wide, flowing sleeves. More than once he managed to trail them in the gravy of passing dishes.
The standard of food served matched the overall atmosphere-a plain mutton stew, with a rather chewy venison roast and platters of stringy boiled vegetables that seemed to have come from long storage in the cellars.
The meal, without conversation or diversion of any kind, was soon finished. Then Agramond left his seat and spoke quietly into Orman's ear. The temporary lord of the castle listened, grimaced slightly, then looked down the table until he picked out Will.
"I believe we are privileged to have an entertainer with us," he said.
If he felt privileged, the tone of his voice certainly didn't betray it There was a weary acceptance of the inevitable and an unmistakable air of disinterest in his words. Will, however, chose to ignore the insulting delivery of the introduction. He stood and moved slightly away from the table to deliver an ornate bow, deep and accompanied with much flourish. Then he smiled widely at Orman.
"If it pleases my lord," he said, "I am a humble jongleur with songs of love, laughter and adventure to share with you."
Orman sighed deeply. "I very much doubt that it will please me in any way," he said. His voice was nasal and high-pitched. Altogether, he was a most unimpressive specimen, Will thought, with not one saving grace evident.
"I suppose you have the usual repertoire of country jigs, folk songs and doggerel to put before us?" he continued. Will thought the best answer was to bow once more.
"My lord," he said, grinding his teeth as he kept his eyes down, and wanting to step up to the head table and throttle the sallow-faced man.
"No faint chance that you might know something of the classics? Some of the greater music?" Orman asked, his tone making it obvious that he knew the answer would be in the negative. Will smiled again, wishing that he had the skill to suddenly burst into the first movement of Saprival's Summer Odes and Interpretations.
"I regret, my lord, that I am not classically trained," he said, around the fixed smile. Orman waved a dismissive hand.
"As do I," he said heavily. "Well, then, I suppose we must endure the inevitable. Perhaps my people will find some enjoyment in your performance."
Not likely after that introduction, thought Will, as he passed the strap of the mandola over his head. He hesitated, looking around the room, taking in the stolid expressions of all present. I think I am about to learn what it is to die on stage, he thought to himself, as he struck up the opening bars of Katy Come and Find Me, a lively reel from Hibernia. It was a safe song for him, one of the first he had ever learned, and the opening instrumental passage was simple but stirring.
And of course, still seething with anger at Orman's attitude, he managed to botch it totally, playing in such a ham-fisted manner that he had to abandon the melody line and strum the chords instead. His ears burned with embarrassment as he plowed doggedly through the song, mistake building on mistake, missed note following missed note. He finished with a thwarted note on the bass string that summed up the ineptitude of the total performance.
Stony silence greeted him for what seemed like minutes. Then, from the back of the hall came the sound of ringing applause.
18
Will turned to look. A group of five men, dressed in hunting clothes, had entered the hall as he sang. Now they applauded, encouraged by the one who was obviously their leader.
Stocky and muscular, he had a square, open face and a wide grin. He moved down the hall now toward Will, continuing to clap as he moved closer. Then he held out his hand in greeting.
"Well done, jongleur, particularly in view of the frosty reception you've been given!"
Will took the hand that was offered. The handshake was firm, and the hand felt hard and callused. Will knew that feel. It was the hand of a warrior.
"What's your name, jongleur?" the man said. He was taller than Will and looked to be in his thirties. He was clean-shaven, with dark, curly hair and lively brown eyes. His four companions stood slightly behind him. Warriors as well, Will noted.
"Will Barton, my lord." The quality of the man's clothing left him in no doubt that this was the correct address. The title was greeted with laughter, however.
"No need for ceremony here, Will Barton. Keren's the name. Sir Keren perhaps on formal occasions, but Keren's good enough any other time." He turned to the top table, raising his voice as he addressed Orman.
"Apologies for our late arrival, cousin. I trust there are some scraps of food still left for us?"
Keren, thought Will, remembering the name. He was Syron's nephew and, by all reports, he was the one holding the castle together in the Lord's absence. He was said to be a capable warrior and a good leader. And, if first impressions were anything to go by, he was a totally different kettle of fish to his cousin.
Orman was speaking now, the distaste in his voice obvious. "The hall is used to your ill-mannered late arrivals by now, cousin," he said. Keren looked back at Will and gave him a conspiratorial grin, accompanied by a histrionic raising of the eyebrows.
"If you'll take your place, I'll have the servants bring food," Orman continued.
Obviously, the empty places at the head table were intended for Keren and his companions. But Keren waved the suggestion aside.
"Let's have places set here," he said, indicating the table close by Will. "We'll eat while we enjoy some music from Will Barton. It's about time a little fun blew through these dowdy old walls," he added, with a glint in his eye. "Let's hear something lively, Will! Do you know Old Joe Smoke by any chance?"
"Indeed I do," Will replied. He was glad he had spent the previous weeks practicing the correct words to the song. He was confident now that he wouldn't make the mistake of mentioning "Graybeard Halt." Halt, after all, was a name famous throughout the kingdom and it would do no good to suggest that he had any connection with the legendary Ranger.
It was amazing what a difference a small group of interested listeners could make. As he began the rippling melody, his fingers were sure and confident. Keren and his friends stamped and clapped along, joining in the chorus-and, gradually, so did the others in the room.
Not Orman, of course. As the applause for Old Joe Smoke died away, Will heard the noise of a chair scraping back at the high table. He glanced around to see the castle's lord leaving by a side door, his face set in a scowl.
"Well, that lightened the mood!" Keren said cheerfully. Will wasn't sure if he was referring to the song or his cousin's departure. "Let's have another, what do you all say?"
He looked around the table at his companions. For a moment there was little response from any of them. Keren leaned forward. His smile widened and he spoke a little louder.