The throne room had a vaulted ceiling, carved sandstone pillars, and a mosaic floor. The captured banners from conquered armies were suspended on the walls and six foot wide shields, decorated with the heraldry of all his sworn nobles, hung from the pillars.

Firgen sat on his throne, a massive edifice carved from holly and engraved with symbols inset with silver and gold leaf. The throne dominated a fur-covered dais. Two Húskarlar squads, twelve petitioners, and a messenger waited on him.

He patted the throne’s wooden arms.

One can’t be a king without a decent throne and a grand throne room. However, if I catch the idiot who covered my throne with cushions, I will have his head. A throne should be padded with wool or linen, not buttock-prickling bird bits.

Firgen yanked a cushion off the back of this throne and threw it at the woman kneeling before him.

Áberd, standing behind and to the right of Firgen, winced.

How long has Áberd been lingering there?

“That gloomy pall of yours could only stem from awful humours. You ill, Áberd?”

“No, Sire.”

Firgen shrugged, “Then you can stand there while I yell at this imbecile.”

“The messenger has only brought you news, Sire,” said Áberd.

“I shot her with a pillow, pretty lenient by my standards.” Firgen squinted at the woman. She wore a knee length thick brown wool tunic, hose, and leather boots. She had brown hair and a brown cloak. Firgen kept his eyes on her lest the messenger shrink herself smaller and blend into the wooden floor.

“Most generous of you, Sire,” said Áberd.

Firgen rubbed his thumb against the well worn symbol for mercy on the arm of the throne.

“The messenger mentioned Duke Mánfeld’s son has taken a critical injury and will be withdrawing from the competition. Duke Mánfeld is livid, Sire.”

“I heard what she said and couldn’t care less. Dolwillen’s son has a second eye in that head of his, doesn’t he?”

The messenger pulled the hood of her cloak up.

Did she shuffle back when I wasn’t looking?

“He does, Sire. Why shoot the messenger?” said Áberd.

“Cerddin is the fifth noble to be ‘indisposed’ and nobody has uncovered how my pitiful peasants and careless craftsmen are dying. The competitors have run into every conceivable, irrelevant trouble and failed to stumble upon anything of consequence. There’s no point if I die before the end of the competition and even less if Rícewelig slips into a midden while they gallivant about.”

“I am sure someone will succeed, Sire.”

“Stop trying to placate me.” Firgen slumped. He tossed his last cushion at the messenger with little enthusiasm. It slid across the floor bumped into the messenger, who was now on both knees and half merged with the floor - a remarkable display of camouflage skills.

“This chair is uncomfortable,” said Firgen.

“Sire,” said Áberd.

“If you have something to add, do so.” He dismissed the messenger with a wave and she scurried away.

“What are you expecting at the Ball?” said Áberd.

Ah, the ball. I’d completely forgotten, “I don’t remember my breakfast, let alone the last ball.”

“You have the same breakfast every day, Sire.”

Firgen glared.

Áberd cleared his throat, “Do you wish me to make all the decisions, Sire? Who to invite, what to serve, how to decorate, and so on.”

“How to decorate? Gods! Why do you think I asked you to do it in the first place?”

“I’d hate to organise the event and have you despise it, Sire.”

“Not to worry Áberd, if I don’t like how it turns out, I can always have you executed, then you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

“Most considerate of you, Sire,” Áberd shivered.

“You’d best hurry along and begin organising,” said Firgen. “I don’t need you to hover over me while I deal with frothing malcontents and mangy freemen. Visit the physician while you're at it. You look pale.”

“Didn’t you want me to ‘fetch’ for you, Sire?”

Firgen glanced at the cushions strewn about the throne room and his milling peons. “So I did. I’d hate to run out of ammunition.”

*

An hour later, Áberd descended the dais and slipped through the back door, anxious to see how his new assistant, lady Gesælþ Cynethryth Sigebehrt, was doing in their tiny, shared office.

Gesælþ’s miraculous arrival was the only delightful event in the unfolding fiasco. His friend and royal treasurer, Earl Rhodomel, had arranged Gesælþ’s help using the words: experience, education, and essential in varying quantities and order to persuade Baronet Sigebehrt the role was worth his daughter’s time.

As he hurried along the corridor, other servants jumped out of his way. Some even gave small bows and minimal curtseys. Áberd snatched a lonely vase from a dusty alcove.

He reached the garden and, while scanning for the vigilant head gardener, pinched a few flowers.

Áberd entered his new office, a small clerk room next to lord Rhodomel’s main office. Two desks and a bookcase filled the room. A brass lamp hung over each desk on a delicate stand. A tiny, cast iron stove hibernated in the corner, inexplicably detached from any sort of chimney, as useful in mid-summer as the sealed glass window haunting the back wall.

“Good morning, lady Sigebehrt,” said Áberd.

“Good morning, sir.”

Gesælþ wore a mottled wool bliaut with white lace cuffs and neck. The bliaut’s hem was embroidered with delicate, blue flowers. Her light brown hair was pinned in a tight bun, exposing her pale neck and two citrine gemstone studs, set in silver.

“Perfect needlecraft, colour matched clothes, and jewellery? Your elegant appearance puts me at ease, Gesælþ.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Áberd placed the vase of summer flowers, a jaunty composition of diaphanous yellow, red, and green on top of the defunct stove.

“If we are going to be in here all day, we should have a little colour,” said Áberd. He sat, aligned his posture, and tweaked out the creases in his clothing. Áberd inhaled the wispy fragrance blooming in the air, “I should sneak a vase into Lord Rhodomel’s office too. He doesn’t get out enough.”

*

Gesælþ smiled. She’d been dreading her assignment. After the first few days she’d realized organising the ball wasn’t a frivolous task. It required specific skills: calligraphy, music, flower arrangement, personnel management, and detailed knowledge of the aristocracy, all skills a lady was expected to know.

“How are the invitations progressing?” said Áberd. He seemed calm, but Gesælþ was beginning to grasp quite how much of his demeanour was an act.

“I’ve written half of them, sir. I am unsure I will finish them in time for the more distant families to arrive,” said Gesælþ.

Áberd leaned left and pulled a large ledger from the bookcase, “I’ll ask lord Rhodomel to spare a couple of clerks for the day to do the borders for you. Will that suffice?”

“Yes, sir.”

Áberd stood and glided through the miniscule gap between the two desks.

The door crashed open, obliterating the tranquillity of the room. Gesælþ squeaked and hunched her shoulders.

Duke Dolwillen stormed in. He wore a bright yellow bliaut under a light red velvet doublet embroidered with his heraldry over his heart: three bushels of wheat and a long handled scythe. His cheeks were concave and sallow, quite at odds with his slight potbelly. A jewelled scabbard and sword hung from a corded, leather belt.

“Your Grace, how may I help you?” said Áberd.

“I need you to set up a meeting with the King,” said Dolwillen.

“My lord, Sir Ebýr Wylde would be a better person to ask,” said Áberd.

“Apparently, he is too busy with training the new troops.”

“I will convey your request to the King as soon as possible, your Grace.”

At last, Gesælþ realized who Áberd was speaking to and scrambled to her feet. Dolwillen’s gaze wandered over her. Gesælþ’s skin crawled.

“Immediately, Áberd,” said Dolwillen.

“Requests,” Áberd cleared his throat, “to the King, are better pitched after his afternoon tea, rather than during it.”

Gesælþ gaped – He’s fearless!

Dolwillen thrust his hands into his doublet’s pockets, “How long?”

“Half an hour, your Grace.”

“Very well. Who’s the lady, Áberd?”

“Lady Gesælþ Cynethryth Sigebehrt, you Grace.”

Gesælþ gave the best curtsey she could in the confined space and almost lost her balance. She clasped her hands, “A pleasure to meet you, your Grace.”

Áberd was forced to dance back as Dolwillen waded into the little room. Dolwillen reached over the desk, grabbed Gesælþ’s hand, and rasped it with a dry kiss. Gesælþ eyelid twitched.

“Likewise, my lady,” said Dolwillen. “What is your role here?”

“I am assisting Áberd with preparations for the royal ball, your Grace.”

Dolwillen caressed her hand with his dirty thumb. Gesælþ’s chest burned as her bile rose.

He released her hand, “I’m sure you are. Áberd, you will bring me the King’s reply at my city manor this evening.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

Dolwillen strode out, leaving the door open – At least the draft clears the air of his revolting perfume.

“What an odious man,” said Gesælþ, after a minute’s silence.

“I would keep that to yourself, my lady.”

Gesælþ clapped her hands over her mouth and tucked her chin into her chest, “Please don’t tell my mother!”

A phantom smile flitted across Áberd’s face, “If it is agreeable with you, my lady, I will see to the clerks.”

“Please do.” Gesælþ sat. She rested her hands on the desk and put one over the other so Áberd wouldn’t notice they were shaking.

I hope I never meet Duke Mánfeld again.

“Would you like some afternoon refreshment?” said Áberd.

“Please, sir. It would be most welcome.”

Áberd bowed and left, shutting the door behind him. The latch never even clicked.

Gesælþ revelled in an unladylike stretch. She picked up her quill, it quivered in her hand.