Candlelight glinted on the remains of the evening meal. A warm glow lingered on the greasy legs of gnawed fowl and made shining puddles of spilled wine that pooled the boards like old blood. Members of the nobility, clad in velvet and fur against the weather, crowded the four long central tables in the Great Hall. Courtiers toasted each other with clashing tankards and tossed gnawed bones aside, ignoring the hopeful dogs and skinny peasants who watched for scraps. Voices swollen with alcohol echoed around the Great Hall like the raucous chatter of crows.

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Old Girdred with his harp warbled almost unnoticed in his usual corner by the massive fireplace while a troupe of jugglers performed a series of lacklustre tricks to the less than attentive audience. Smoke, burnt meat, stale ale and rotting vegetables formed a pungent backdrop to the poisonous gossip that coiled through the air.

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Clad in sumptuous blue velvet and crowded between the men at the top table, Petronella, Queen of Epera, massaged a dull headache as she regarded her meal. Her stomach begged for food, but her throat had constricted along with the rising tension in her shoulders. Picking a morsel of stale bread from her silver plate, she placed it in her mouth and chewed, trying to ignore the speculative glances that rained on her from the feasting nobility.

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She shifted to her right as her husband, King Arion, leaned into her. His eating knife waved perilously close to her ear as he argued his point with the oily and war hungry Count of Dupliss on his left. Dupliss perched in his chair like a stork, a stick like dapper figure dressed in black. He trimmed a piece of meat from the bone, cut it into precise pieces, and arranged it in its own gravy as he listened with courteous attention to the king.

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“What can Oceanis expect other than war if they persist in raising their prices? We cannot feed our people with what we now produce. The granaries are almost empty, and all Merlon does is sit on his plentiful arse while we fight for scraps in the rain.”

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Dupliss replied to his king, his lowered voice unheard in the din. Petronella turned her own blade in her hand, handle over tip. War. Still. Arion thought of little else these days. For a clever man, his mind ran on one extremely well-oiled track. Or two, if she included his obsession with her ability to bear a child. The thought of her failure in that regard made her stomach clench.

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Stifling nausea, she waved away a tray of gilded partridge offered by the skinny serf who bowed in front of her. Her husband glared at her. She shrank away, refusing to meet his gaze.

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“That’s the last of the partridge. You should eat it.”

Arion stabbed his knife through one skinny bird and transferred it to his plate where it languished, uneaten, as he turned back to his councillor. The servant slunk away with his burden to the lesser tables. Petronella’s lip trembled as she marked his progress across the room, scanning vacuous faces as they ate and drank.

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The Lady Violet de Grym, dressed in red velvet and ermine, was already drunk. She swayed as she leaned over the board, fumbling for the nearest flagon of Argentish. Her copious bosom swelled from her bodice. As she had undoubtedly intended, her charms had attracted the besotted attention of several gentlemen, none of them her husband. The closest nudged the decanter nearer to her with a flourish and a leer.

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At another table close by, a sweating governess struggled to remove the king’s ten-year-old bastard son from the company. He resisted her, fists flailing. Blood bloomed from the woman’s nose as he scored a direct hit. Petronella glared at him, but the boy continued his campaign until Arion snared his attention and nodded at the door. The child tossed his blond head and left the room with his narrow shoulders squared and his governess scuttling in his wake, a kerchief held to her bloody nostrils. The noise level in the room intensified with their exit.

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Petronella’s father, Lord Falconridge, a long-standing senior member of the King’s council and his former tutor, leaned across her into the argument. His broad shoulders crushed her against the hard back of her wooden chair. She inhaled the familiar scent of musk and dust that lingered in his robes as she tried to avoid him, and squashed her anger as his furs tickled her nose. Her eyes bored his powerful back with disgust. His disrespect would change soon enough if she bore a child. Her mother, Briana, would have delighted in a grandchild, but she’d never properly recovered from the shock of Jana’s death. The Falconridge family crypt claimed mother and daughter both. Only Petronella remained to take her sister’s place as queen, and provide the heir to the throne.

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Huffing a sigh, her mind drifted to her bedchamber where an old copy of Ye Arte of Conceivinge lay tucked under her pillow, awaiting her attention. Her tutor, Mistress Eglion, had sourced and smuggled the volume to her under a mound of Arion’s shirts awaiting embroidery. The sense of failure tugged at her once again, and her listless spirit drooped as the meal progressed and the din increased. If Jana sat here as queen, babes aplenty would crowd the nursery by now, all bearing her russet hair and their father’s black eyes. The kingdom would be thriving. Perhaps the book held something to help her. Something she had yet to try.

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Lost in her thoughts, she snapped back to bitter reality when a tremendous scream filled the air. Drowned out, Old Girdred fumbled mid phrase and dropped his harp. A distracted acrobat landed on the feet of his partner and they both crashed to the stone flags. Props spilled with a clatter.

In the sudden quiet, curious eyes turned to Lady Violet and the unfortunate servant with his empty platter. The rest of the fowl jutted from the well of her cleavage and oozed a sticky trail of grease down her bodice. A snicker of laughter, soon hushed, snaked through the company.

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Cheeks scarlet with anger, Lady Violet plucked roast meat from her bosom and threw it at the man who grovelled on the stones at her feet. He snatched at the spoiled food. She kicked him, and he staggered upright, stammering ragged apologies. Fear paled his narrow face. Dark eyes surrounded by shadows. Already a skeleton. “Your ladyship, I am so sorry, I tripped.”

His voice trembled forwards, aimed at the floor. His hands shook so much the gathered food spilled once more onto the flags.

 

Knees knocking, bladder clenching, Petronella tried to rise from her seat. She shoved at her father, but he braced himself against her, one heavy arm pinned across her lap to ensure she kept her place. The carved wood dug bruises into her spine.

 

Arion stood. His towering form cast shadows across the boards in the flickering light of the torches.

“We do not waste food in these hard times. Bring him here.” His command rang like iron wrapped in ice.

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Lord Falconridge sat back in his chair, a tight smile on his thin lips. His snapping black eyes bored a warning into hers. Petronella pressed a boneless hand to her chest, where her heart beat an erratic tattoo. Goose flesh pricked the hairs on the back of her neck and her constant headache intensified. The lash of rain against the stained-glass windows dominated the sudden, enthralled silence as the courtiers froze. Half in terror, half in fascinated interest at the spectacle.

Content to ignore the drama now she’d created it, Lady Violet picked up a discarded rag and dabbed furiously at her ruined gown.

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Two of the king’s men at arms shouldered their way to the servant and dragged him, like a sack of second-hand cloth, to the dais. The king looked down his nose at the man as he hung between them, his eyes narrowed on him like a hawk on prey. The young man’s eyes darkened with terror as he struggled, his puny strength no match against the men who held him. His terrified gaze roamed the ranks of the highborn arrayed in silent judgment before him and snagged with hers in mute, desperate appeal. Petronella knew, suddenly, exactly what would happen. Her head thumped. She swallowed, her throat dry as ash.

“My Lord,” she said. “Show mercy to your people.”

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Arion turned to her, raking her with his glare. His eyes sparked like dark jewels in the candlelight. “You go beyond yourself, Petronella of the Falcons.”

His hand lifted. A flick of a wrist, a flash of shining silver across the gap between them, and the young man stared with horror at the blade embedded with pinpoint accuracy in the spoon of his fragile chest. A drawn breath from the avid courtiers and the guards let go. The unfortunate attendant crumpled to the floor.

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Arion gave them a curt nod. “Take him away.” He glared at the blade buried in the dead man’s chest. The slim handle protruded. A thorn, badged in blood. It bloomed on the serf’s tunic like a poisoned rose. “And someone bring me another knife.”

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Heads down, his subjects obeyed.

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The king remained standing, cold as a statue, as his men dragged the former servant out, still twitching. The courtiers drew away from the grisly procession and returned to the meal, picking up goblets and refilling their cups.

Conversation swelled once more and Girdred reclaimed his harp.

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Face frozen at the king’s right side, Petronella’s hand shook as she raised the dark, dry wine she favoured to her lips. The goblet knocked against her teeth. Heart drumming, her eyes scanned the crowd. Another eager suitor aimed an intrepid cloth at Lady Violet’s stained bodice. She batted him away. The acrobats picked up their juggling tools and resumed their routine.

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The table lurched as her husband regained his seat, claiming her attention. The familiar scent of decay surrounding him twisted her stomach. Eyes narrowed with spite, he turned to her. Rancid with stale wine and herbs, his breath enveloped her as he hissed in her ear. Stifling nausea, she turned her face away.

“You dishonour me,” he said. “Queen of this kingdom for ten years and yet to bear me a child. I will give you one last chance. Do not believe you are any safer than he.”

Petronella’s hand sprang to her mouth. Tears blurred her eyes as she forced herself to look at her husband.

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“Forgive me, your majesty,” she said, “I suddenly feel ill.”

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She scraped her chair from the table. The king dismissed her with a bored wave of his hand, barely glancing at her as she withdrew, accompanied by the ladies of her household.