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a greeting from the daughter of the house is not the same as an acknowledgement from you and me. Riddle may stand at her shoulder as our steward and help her, but until the king gives his permission for them to wed, we should not present them as a couple. So it is you and I who must wait. Because I’m not going to be content with “a bit” of your time tonight. I expect better effort than that from you.’
‘Really?’ I challenged her. I took two swift steps toward her, but with a girlish shriek she was out of the door. As she pulled it almost shut, she added through the crack, ‘Hurry up! You know how quickly Patience’s parties can get out of hand. I’ve left Nettle in charge of things, but you know, Riddle is very nearly as bad as Patience.’ A pause. ‘And do not dare to be late and leave me with no dancing partner!’
She shut the door just as I reached it. I halted and then, with a small sigh, went back for my clean leggings and soft shoes. She would expect me to dance, and I would do my best. I did know that Riddle was apt to enjoy himself at any sort of festivity at Withywoods with an abandon that was very unlike the reserved fellow he showed himself at Buckkeep, and perhaps not precisely correct for a man who was ostensibly just our former household steward. I found myself smiling. Where he led, sometimes Nettle followed, showing a merry side of herself that she, too, seldom revealed at the king’s court. Hearth and Just, the two of Molly’s six grown sons who were still at home, would need very little encouragement to join in. As Patience had invited half of Withy and far more musicians than could perform in one evening, I fully expected that our Winterfest revelry would last at least three days.
With some reluctance, I removed my leggings and pulled on the trousers. They were a dark green that was nearly black, thin linen and nearly as voluminous as a skirt. They tied at my waist with ribbons. A broad silk sash completed the ridiculous garment. I told myself that my wearing them would please Molly. I suspected that Riddle would have been bothered into donning similar garb. I sighed again, wondering why we must all emulate Jamaillian fashions, and then resigned myself to it. I finished dressing, badgered my hair into a warrior tail, and left our bedchamber. I paused at the top of the grand oak staircase; the sounds of merriment drifted up to me. I took a breath as if I were about to dive into deep water. I had nothing to fear, no reason to hesitate, and yet the ingrained habits of my distant boyhood still clutched at me. I had every right to descend this stair, to walk among the glad company below as master of the house and husband to the lady who owned it. Now I was known as Holder Tom Badgerlock, common-born perhaps but elevated alongside Lady Molly to gentry status. The bastard FitzChivalry Farseer – grandson and nephew and cousin to kings – had been laid to rest two score years ago. To the folk below, I was Holder Tom and the founder of the feast they would enjoy.
Even if I was wearing silly Jamaillian trousers.
I paused a moment longer, listening. I could hear two distinct groups of minstrels vying to tune their instruments. Riddle’s laugh rang suddenly clear and loud, making me smile. The hum of voices from the grand room lifted in volume and then fell again. One set of minstrels gained ascendancy, for a lively drumbeat suddenly broke through the voices to dominate all. The dancing would soon begin. Truly, I was late, and had best descend. Yet there was sweetness to standing here, above it all, imagining Nettle’s flashing feet and sparkling eyes as Riddle led her through the dance steps. Oh, and Molly! She would be waiting for me! I had become a passable dancer over the years, for her sake, as she loved it so. She would not easily forgive me if I left her standing.
I hurried down the polished oak steps two at a time, reached the hall foyer and was there suddenly ambushed by Revel. Our new young steward was looking very fine indeed in a white shirt, black jacket and black trousers in the Jamaillian fashion. His green house shoes were startling, as was the yellow scarf at his throat. Green and yellow were the Withywoods colours, and I suspected these accoutrements were Patience’s idea. I did not let the smile curve my mouth but I think he read it in my eyes. He stood even taller and looked down at me as he soberly informed me, ‘Sir, there are minstrels at the door.’
I gave him a puzzled glance. ‘Well, let them in, man. It’s Winterfest.’
He stood still, his lips folded in disapproval. ‘Sir, I do not think they were invited.’
‘It’s Winterfest,’ I repeated, beginning to be annoyed. Molly would not be pleased at being kept waiting. ‘Patience invites every minstrel, puppeteer, tumbler, tinker or blacksmith she meets to come and sojourn with us for a time. She probably invited them months ago and forgot all about it.’
I did not think his back could get stiffer but it did. ‘Sir, they were outside the stable, trying to peer in through a crack in the planking. Tallman heard the dogs barking and went to see what it was about and found them. That is when they said they were minstrels, invited for Winterfest.’
‘And?’
He took a short breath. ‘Sir, I do not think they are minstrels. They have no instruments. And while one said they were minstrels, another said, no, they were tumblers. But when Tallman said he would walk them up to the front door, they said that he needn’t, they only wished to beg shelter for the night, and the stable would be fine.’ He shook his head. ‘Tallman spoke to me privately when he brought them up. He thinks they’re none of what they claim to be. And so do I.’
I gave him a look. Revel folded his arms. He did not meet my glance but his mouth was stubborn. I found a bit of patience for him. He was young and fairly new to the household. Cravit Softhands, our ancient steward, had died last year. Riddle had stepped up to shoulder many of the old man’s duties, but insisted that Withywoods needed a new steward trained. I’d casually replied that I did not have time to find one, and within three days Riddle had brought Revel to us. After two months, Revel was still learning his place, I told myself, and considered that perhaps Riddle had infused him with a bit too much caution. Riddle was, after all, Chade’s man, insinuated into our household to watch my back and probably spy on me. Despite his current merriness and devotion to my daughter, he was a man steeped in carefulness. Given his way, we’d have had a guard contingent at Withywoods to rival the Queen’s Own. I reined my mind back to the question at hand.
‘Revel, I appreciate your care. But it’s Winterfest. And be they minstrels or wandering beggars, no man should be turned from our door on such a holiday, or on such a snowy evening. While there’s room in the house, they need not sleep in the stable. Bring them in. I’m sure all will be well.’
‘Sir.’ He was not agreeing, but he was obeying. I suppressed a sigh. That would do for now. I turned to join the throng in the Great Hall.
‘Sir?’
I turned back. My voice was stern as I asked him, ‘Is there something else, Revel? Something pressing?’ I could hear the tentative notes of musicians bringing their instruments into harmony and then the music suddenly opened into blossom. I’d missed the start of the first dance. I gritted my teeth as I thought of Molly standing alone, watching the dancers whirl.
I saw his teeth catch for an instant on his lower lip. He decided to press on. ‘Sir, the messenger still waits for you in your study.’
‘Messenger?’
Revel gave a martyred sigh. ‘Hours ago, I sent one of our temporary pages looking for you with a message. He said he shouted it at you through the door of the steams. I have to inform you, sir, this is what comes of us using untrained boys and girls as pages. We should have a few here permanently, if only to train them for future need.’
At my wearied look, Revel cleared his throat and changed tactics. ‘My apologies, sir. I should have sent him back to confirm you’d heard him.’
‘I didn’t. Revel, would you mind dealing with it for me?’ I took a hesitant step toward the hall. The music was rising.
Revel gave a minute shake of his head. ‘I am very sorry, sir. But the messenger insists the message is specifically for you. I have asked twice if I could be of any help, and offered to write the message for you to receive.’ He shook his head. ‘The messenger insists that only you can receive the words.’
I guessed the message, then. Holder Barit had been trying to wrangle me into