The Demon: An eShort Story by Douglas Nicholas

Author:Douglas Nicholas [Nicholas, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Historical
ISBN: 9781476782874
Amazon: B00IQ8QQHO
Barnesnoble: B00IQ8QQHO
Goodreads: 20943461
Publisher: Atria/Emily Bestler Books
Published: 2014-03-18T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 2

UP THE ECHOING, WINDING turret stair with its slice-of-pie stair treads, the puppy scrabbling on the stone, determined to keep up. The party entered a solar that had been prepared for them: three rectangular rooms, not overlarge, with whitewashed walls; a small fireplace with a merry blaze against the cool evenings here in the mountains; a floor carpeted with the ubiquitous rushes, here mingled with lavender and hyssop. A table was set with brightly colored cloths, and on the sideboards was a simple meal, less ornate than that about to be enjoyed by Lady Isabeau and the others at the high table in the hall below. The food was adequate—pigeon stewed in garlic and herbs, bread, flagons of bragget and of barley beer, of wine and of apple wine, and so on—but not likely to be a distraction.

Pages waited to serve, but Sir Jehan shooed them out and bolted the door, saying, “Squire Robert, pray serve as page to all this night, that we may speak without fear of little ears and wagging tongues.” Hob, who had served as one of the Blanchefontaine pages not so long ago, rose quickly and began to serve, placing trenchers of hardened bread to serve as plates; napkins; ewers of rosewater to rinse the fingers; a tureen heaped with satire, a mixture of beef and vegetables and dried apples. He began with Molly, then went on to Nemain, then Sir Odinell as a guest in the castle, then Sir Jehan. Lastly he set a trencher for Jack and one for himself, and thereafter was up and down, attentive to each diner, replenishing empty plates or drained goblets, pouring water over a diner’s hands and providing a towel to dry them, bringing fresh supplies of food and drink from the sideboard.

Sir Jehan waited a bit out of consideration for his guest, but the subject to be discussed hung in the air, and at any rate, despite his long journey, Sir Odinell did not seem hungry, and ate some of his food and pushed more of it about on his plate. The Sieur de Blanchefontaine nodded at Hob, and said, “Our young man will gain—” Here he paused: it was his habit to pause in odd places, as his restless thoughts crowded in upon him, and he lost his thread for a moment, and then gathered it up again. “—gain his spurs, in perhaps three years. He has already slain a swordsman—” He fell silent; he looked at the graven bronze ghost of his own sword hand; then: “—a swordsman, one of two murderous gallants who were loose in the castle. This one had killed several of my best men; Sir Balthasar dealt with the other.”

But Hob could not let this pass. “By your leave, my lord, ’twas not I. ’Twas Nem—, um, Queen Nemain who slew him.”

Sir Odinell was looking from Hob to Nemain—small and pretty, with her mass of red hair and vivid green eyes—with an expression of mild confusion.

Nemain said fiercely, loyally:

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