Malcolm rolled his eyes and shook his head but said nothing. He set his cup beside Griffin and slid into the seat between him and Egrid.
Cornwall’s face fell into a deep scowl.
“Oh, come here, Cornwall,” Sybil called, patting the seat next to her.
He skulked off, taking the seat beside Esmera instead, where he proceeded to pout and whisper in her ear all the way through the abysmal meal.
No one other than the two old men spoke, making every overzealous chew, every hard swallow, every utensil scrape magnified in volume, and Griffin’s lack of manners that much more obvious. Esmera, it seemed, would rather stare than eat. If not for his training’s effect on his appetite, Griffin might have been too embarrassed to finish off the platter of meat all by himself.
An hour later, Halig finally cleared the food. Capp brought a pitcher of ale and set it before the king. Bradyn’s cousin looked particularly grim, casting a wary glance at Griffin before retreating.
The king, still sucking food from his teeth, poured ale into his chalice and held it out. “To new beginnings and a unified land.”
“How can I toast my new beginning if Prince Jori isn’t here?” Esmera thumped her glass down, spilling it. “I have no wedding date. And I have to say his absence is rather suspect. Maybe there is to be no wedding after all.”
“What Esmera means to say is that maybe we have been lured into a trap,” Cornwall hissed. “Malcolm was right. One of us should’ve remained in the North.”
Malcolm spun his glass, adding nothing to explain away what Cornwall had said.
“A trap? How dare you?” It was Egrid and not King Umbert, as Griffin would’ve expected, who got angry over their comments. Egrid leaned hard on his crutch to stand, then pounded the table with his fist. “King Umbert is my closest friend and greatest ally. Do not think to slight him this way.”
“Not to worry, Egrid,” King Umbert said, laughing. “As I recall, your wife, Admerena, was in no less a hurry to wed you. Such a shame she had to die giving birth to Cornwall.” King Umbert stood up with his glass in hand. “Lady Esmera, my son will be at your side by morning. As to your wedding day . . . how does the same day as the tournament’s finale sound? A celebration all around.”
“A whole week?” Esmera whined.
“Why not tomorrow, if he will truly be back then?” Cornwall snipped.
“Yes. I brought the dress. Tomorrow is perfect.”
Griffin laughed in horror. “Prince Jori deserves a little advance notice, doesn’t he?”
“Warning, you mean.” Sybil smirked at him.
Esmera kicked her under the table so hard Griffin heard her boot hit bone.
“Ow!”
“This will be the most important wedding to ever happen in the Walled City. A week is little time to prepare as it is,” King Umbert said, “but I’m sure Lady Esmera has a vision of what she wants.”
Egrid nodded to his daughter, who was trying to hide her aggravation over the delay with a wide smile. “You give us nothing but grace, Your Majesty.”
King Umbert nodded. “It will be the grandest occasion my people have ever witnessed. They shall pass stories about it through generations.”
Esmera’s vanity seemed to trump her pride. She flushed at the excitement of being at the center of such an occasion. “Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”
“Then it’s settled,” King Umbert declared. He raised his cup to drink but stopped short. “Oh, but then there is the issue of the northern soldiers. I’m told near a hundred are setting up tents outside the western side of the wall. What are they doing here?”
“Protection for our journey.” The lie rolled easily off Malcolm’s tongue.
The king half grumbled, half chuckled. “Protection. Insurance is more like it.”
Malcolm leaned forward, setting his elbows on the table, clasping his hands. “Our meager force is hardly an issue with a giant impenetrable wall standing between them and the city.”
King Umbert’s eyes narrowed on Malcolm. “Your meager force?”
“That—that is what Malcolm said,” Egrid answered, sounding baffled, but Griffin knew exactly what King Umbert meant.
“They are my soldiers now that the date is set.” Umbert smirked at Egrid, who looked as if he had swallowed a sour pill. “Come to think of it, having them nearby saved them another long ride. I should be thanking you, Malcolm.”
“Thank me after the wedding,” Malcolm volleyed. “For they belong to the North until that day, do they not, Father?”
Laird Egrid cleared his throat and coughed, avoiding an answer.
King Umbert glanced at Griffin. Griffin wasn’t sure if the king was looking for counsel or not but felt strange remaining silent. “Either way, I have a feeling the men, having journeyed so far, would appreciate Your Majesty’s generous hospitality. Especially if it came in the form of wine or mead barrels, running freely?”
Drunken, they would be useless to fight. A thought Griffin saw register on Malcolm’s face.
King Umbert nodded. “Yes. An excellent idea. Bradyn, let that be done. Speak to your father.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Bradyn ran out of the room to see to the king’s orders.
There it was, a brittle peace hanging on the affable Jori marrying the spoiled Esmera. Griffin had never admired Jori for his position, but until now, he had never felt sorry for him either. This had been the most painful meal he’d ever had to endure, and it would be Jori’s every meal from his wedding day forward.
“Enough now. Let’s walk, Egrid,” King Umbert insisted.
His hands shaking, Egrid set his crutches under his arms and set off with the king. Esmera left, dragging Sybil with her. Cornwall followed, worrying after his swords at the guards on his way out. That left Griffin alone with Malcolm.
The pitcher of ale Capp had brought sat untouched in the middle of the table. Malcolm filled a glass to the top. “Ready for a dramatic fall from grace, Griffin?”
Griffin laughed. “Is this your game? Silent and brooding. A cutting line when you can think one up? You brought your father’s men—”
“My men. My father hasn’t been the true laird for some time.”
The king was right. Malcolm did mean to challenge Jori. “Your men. His men. They’re the king’s men. We all are. And intimidation is futile, Malcolm. I’ve already beaten you. Beaten every draignoch presented. I won’t fail in the arena tomorrow. Or ever in this tournament. How on earth do you think you will cause my fall from grace?”
Malcolm sucked in a sharp breath between clenched teeth, still weighing his glass. “So long as you stand beside a man like Umbert or his disloyal, lying son, you’re an easy target.”
Griffin suddenly felt like he’d aged ten years. Every word had to be chosen carefully or Malcolm could twist them against him. “You speak of disloyalty, but it’s obvious to all that you mean to keep your sister from becoming a queen. And I stand behind the king and his son, and I’m all the better for it.”
“You are the better for it, because they need you. Mark my words: one slip and the wind will shift direction.”
The king’s greyhounds bounded through the door and leaped up on the table. The pitcher fell over. Snarling and snapping, they fought for the last bits of ale spilling out, lapping it up.