In front of the fire was laid the high table, draped in white linen, with dishes of gold, all heaped high with food. Little dogs scampered across the table, helping themselves to the food as they liked - until the man in the center of the table swatted them away with a curse.
Lord Oliver de Vannes was about thirty, with small eyes set in a fleshy, dissolute face. His mouth was permanently turned down in a sneer; he tended to keep his lips tight, since he was missing several teeth. His clothes were as ornate as the room: a robe of blue and gold, with a high-necked gold collar, and a fur hat. His necklace consisted of blue stones each the size of a robin's egg. He wore rings on several fingers, huge oval gems in heavy gold settings. He stabbed with his knife at food and ate noisily, grunting to his companions.
But despite the elegant accoutrements, the impression he conveyed was of a dangerous petulance - his red-rimmed eyes darted around the room as he ate, alert to any insult, spoiling for a fight. He was edgy and quick to strike; when one of the little dogs came back to eat again, Oliver unhesitatingly jabbed it in its rear with the point of his knife; the animal jumped off and ran yelping and bleeding from the room.
Lord Oliver laughed, wiped the dog's blood off the tip of his blade, and continued to eat.
The men seated at his table shared the joke. From the look of them, they were all soldiers, Oliver's contemporaries, and all were elegantly dressed - though none matched the finery of their leader. And three or four women, young, pretty and bawdy, in tight-fitting dresses and with loose, wanton hair, giggling as their hands groped beneath the table, completed the scene.
Kate stared, and a word came unbidden to her mind: warlord. This was a medieval warlord, sitting with his soldiers and their prostitutes in the castle he had captured.
A wooden staff banged on the floor, and a herald cried, "My Lord! Magister Edward de Johnes!" Turning, she saw Johnston shoved through the crowd, toward the table at the front.
Lord Oliver looked up, wiping gravy from his jowls with the back of his hand. "I bid you welcome, Magister Edwardus. Though I do not know if you are Magister or magicien."
"Lord Oliver," the Professor said, speaking in Occitan. He gave a slight nod of the head.
"Magister, why so cool," Oliver said, pretending to pout. "You wound me, you do. What have I done to deserve this reserve? Are you displeased I brought you from the monastery? You shall eat as well here, I assure you. Better. Anywise, the Abbot has no need of you - and I do."
Johnston stood erect, and did not speak.
"You have nothing to say?" Oliver said, glaring at Johnston. His face darkened. "That will change," he growled.
Johnston remained unmoving, silent.
The moment passed. Lord Oliver seemed to collect himself. He smiled blandly. "But come, come, let us not quarrel. With all courtesy and respect, I seek your counsel," Oliver said. "You are wise, and I have much need of wisdom - so these worthies tell me." Guffaws at the table. "And I am told you can see the future."
"No man sees that," Johnston said.
"Oh so? I think you do, Magister. And I pray you, see your own. I would not see a man of your distinction suffer much. Know you how your namesake, our late king, Edward the Foolish, met his end? I see by your face that you do. Yet you were not among those present in the castle. And I was." He smiled grimly and sat back in his chair. "There was never a mark upon his body."
Johnston nodded slowly. "His screams could be heard for miles."
Kate looked questioningly to Marek, who whispered, "They're talking about Edward II of England. He was imprisoned and killed. His captors didn't want any sign of foul play, so they stuck a tube up his rectum and inserted a red-hot poker into his bowels until he died."
Kate shivered.
"He was also gay," Marek whispered, "so it was thought the manner of his execution demonstrated great wit."
"Indeed, his screams were heard for miles," Oliver was saying. "So think on it. You know many things, and I would know them, too. You are my counselor, or you are not long for this world."
Lord Oliver was interrupted by a knight who slipped down the table and whispered in his ear. This knight was richly dressed in maroon and gray, but he had the tough, weathered face of a campaigner. A deep scar, almost a welt, ran down his face from forehead to chin and disappeared into his high collar. Oliver listened, and then said to him, "Oh? You think so, Robert?"
At this, the scarred knight whispered again, never taking his eyes off the Professor. Lord Oliver was also staring at the Professor while he listened. "Well, we shall see," Lord Oliver said.
The stocky knight continued to whisper, and Oliver nodded.
Standing in the crowd, Marek turned to the courtier beside him and, speaking in Occitan, said, "Pray, what worthy now has Sir Oliver's ear?"
"Faith, friend, that is Sir Robert de Kere."
"De Kere?" Marek said. "I do not know of him."
"He is new to the retinue, not yet in service a year, but he has found much favor in Sir Oliver's eyes."
"Oh so? Why is that?"
The man shrugged wearily, as if to say, Who knows why things happen at the high table? But he answered, "Sir Robert has a martial disposition, and he has been a trusted adviser to Lord Oliver on matters of warfare." The man lowered his voice. "But certes, I think he cannot be pleased to see another adviser, and one so eminent, before him now."
"Ah," Marek said, nodding. "I understand."
Sir Robert did indeed seem to be pressing his case, whispering urgently, until finally Oliver made a quick flicking sign with one hand, as if brushing away a mosquito. Instantly, the knight bowed and stepped back, standing behind Sir Oliver.