Sir Alaykin’s feasting table was perhaps not the most refined of dining experiences but Caste was willing to overlook any faults in delicacy in light of the contentment he was feeling. He had spent most of the day ensconced in Fort Bastil’s library, availing himself to the tomes unknown to him. Books were notoriously expensive and sadly rather fragile. Fire, water…even just sitting on shelves had the ability to turn the wisdom within into mouldy, charred lumps. While the Order of the Grail had an extensive library, the best in all of Terra, there were many volumes lost, scattered throughout the continent, some never to be found and others, buried within the libraries of the forts, each knight unwittingly becoming the protector of valuable books when they were assigned the responsibility of a fort.
Clerics were not the courageous, adventurous sort and so many did not travel beyond Astaril unless it was to take up residence in a fort. Caste had found a gem of comfort in his cavorting about the countryside with LaMogre. He could bury himself within libraries and study their texts in the same way that a young man studied the face of the girl that he was enamoured with.
In fact, Caste had become so entranced by the contents of Fort Bastil’s library that he had to be reminded to attend supper. He made sure his tunic was smooth and clean before arriving with Bede. Though clerics were essential to the establishment of forts and of a knight’s command, they were not highly thought of by the military aspect. As such, Dalain Thiery and his second in command sat at the head of the table with Sir Alaykin while Caste and Bede were situated halfway down the table.
The intercourse offered by men of military minds didn’t interest Caste and women rarely paid clerics any attention. It was not that clerics could not marry but simply that the kind of person who preferred books to people were uninclined to get married. After all, why would a woman fawn over someone like Bede, tall and leering when there were ample soldiers to flirt with? Sir Alaykin might already be taken, his wife confined to her chambers as she was expecting a child in the next month or so, but Dalain was available and judging by the coy looks of the ladies of the court, some of whom were married, Dalain could have his pick of any female and be able to crush any husband who might object.
So Caste endured Bede’s less than dazzling wit and enjoyed the food as much as he could, the flavour of the mead improving with each sip he took but in order to consider it fine, he would have to be blind drunk. He was just starting to calculate how long it would be before he could excuse himself from supper when Sir Alaykin guffawed at the head of the table, slamming his fist onto the thick boards, causing all the cutlery to jangle.
“He got up seventeen times? Seventeen? Middle class might be common but my word, they’re stubborn!”
“And thick skulled.” Dalain snorted. “I must have knocked him on the noggin three times! Whatever sense there was in there has been well and truly sent flying.”
“Sir Rylan might be a first class knight but even I can’t fathom his intent with welcoming the lower classes into the elite world of knighthood.” Alaykin shook his head. “Most of those lads would be dead before they killed one goblin.”
“LaMogre claims to have killed several goblins and an ogre.”
“Must have been an elderly or infirm ogre.”
Caste felt his jaw tighten. He had seen the ogre. There had been nothing elderly or infirm about it but before he leapt to Judd’s defence, he reminded himself that Judd was incompetent and inexperienced and the ogre had, quite literally, fallen on Judd’s sword. It was hardly a dazzling kill.
“Do you know what he told me?” Alaykin huffed. “He is the son of a fisherman! What business does a man, who reeks of fish, have becoming a knight?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Dalain gulped his wine, “he’s going to have a long time recovering from today to consider the wisdom of trying to become a knight.”
“I should hope so.” Alaykin cleared his throat. “Why don’t we have some music? A minstrel has been entertaining many of Bastil’s soldiers. I thought, why not invite him to play for us?”
“By Grail…” Caste moaned quietly as the doors to the feasting hall opened and the blond headed minstrel appeared, lute in hand and he gave a flamboyant bow to the guests.
“Sir Alaykin, sword master Dalain, honoured guests and radiant ladies,” there was a round of tittering at this less than subtle flirt, “my name is Giordi Gavoli and I thank you for asking me to play at your table. Have you a melody in mind? An epic battle? A romantic drama? A risqué ditty?”
“Sing the story of Andigre and Grail and the forging of the Four Spire knights.” Alaykin said, waving his hand, leaning back in his chair.
“As you command, my lord.” Giordi waved his feather plumed hat in a theatrical bow then, holding the lute with both hands, he began to play and sing as he moved around the table.
“I wager you know of Andigre,
Of his Four Spire Knights and of Grail?
But there is more truth to be known,
Like blood from a stone,
If you would but listen to my tale.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Sir Callain was a horseman unrivalled
And of such great skill and repute
It was rumoured his mother,
Romanced by a centaur
Foaled this horseflesh capable brute.”
Caste shuddered at the thought, dismissing it firmly from his mind. He certainly did not need that rather unpleasant image visiting him again.
“Sir Omra had the strength of ten strongmen,
Was brawny, brash and tanned
He could throw a spear,
Simply stand still and hear,
As it circled the world to return to his hand.”
“Good grief…”
“Sir Mavour’s bow was seven foot long,
And his draw was equally wide.
He could fire an arrow
Through the heart of a sparrow
And hit a bullseye on the other side.”
“Physically impossible and needlessly unkind towards sparrows.”
“Sir Verion was Andigre’s second
Alas in more ways than one
For hearts of countless maids
Did not remain unscathed
Yet by Grail he was denied and undone”
“Eh…that can hardly be denied and there is some small evidence attesting to its truth…”
“There was no woman more beautiful than Grail
No woman more elegant or well endowed
For while she had power at her long fingertips
She only needed to purse her full lips
And the monster of Maul simply swooned or cowed.”
“Star of Astaril, give me strength…”
“Sir Andigre, noble, strong and true
Handsome, brave and a romancer too
Terra has never seen his likeness before
And the monsters were unable to keep him from Maul
His sword cut down their hoards
Though they bore both tooth and claw
When at last the war was through.
So strong was his hand,
With his sorceress at hand
And all of Terra he had vowed to protect
Refusing to grow old,
With ambition so bold
Into the mount he strode, the end of the monsters to effect
Though he never arose,
To his death we suppose,
Went Andigre, the first knight, in a word, perfect.”
“No one is perfect, not even Andigre.”
“Gone is Andigre,
Gone too Callain and Mavour
Omra, Verion and Grail
But though they are dead
On that score, enough said
Thank the minstrel for his entertaining tale.”
Giordi finished his merry melody of Sir Andigre, his Four Spire knights and of Grail with a dramatic twang of his lute and then a bow with a flourish. The feasting guests applauded loudly, the soldiers and Sir Alaykin thumping their approval upon the table, causing all the crockery to jolt and jar in a cacophony that Caste almost preferred over the minstrel.
“Bravo Gavoli! You’ve more than earned a dash of silver,” Alaykin flipped him a silver piece which Giordi caught in his hat, pocketing it securely, “and a place at my table. Sit and drink.”
“Thank you, Sir Alaykin.” Giordi bowed again then, to Caste’s annoyance, the cherub minstrel took up a seat next to Bede, almost directly opposite himself. When his tankard was full he lifted it to Sir Alaykin. “May your cup always been full to the brim and may you never miss your bedpan.”
His toast caused the half drunken guests to chortle as if he had displayed some sort of remarkable wit. Caste fixed his eyes upon the minstrel with a stern dryness which he returned with a sparkling blue gaze.
“Is it the habit of every minstrel to exaggerate the truth to realms unimaginable?” Caste demanded.
“Not at first,” Giordi said as the conversation at the table swelled around them so that their intercourse was not all that could be heard, “however, the longer one sings these songs, the grander the accomplishments, appearance and all around flare needs to become. After all, no one wishes to hear of a half baked knight and his motley crew of misfits…unless I was telling a comedy.”
Caste shook his head. “Perhaps a little metaphoric flare is permissible…but I doubt there was one absolute fact within that web of lies you just sang.” He leaned forward as Giordi swigged his wine. “For instance, Sir Mavour’s bow was seven foot long? That is not possible and certainly not useable. He would have had to be fifteen feet high simply to wield such a bow. And all scholars agree that the world is flat so if Sir Omra could truly throw a spear as you say he could, it would not return to his hand but fly off the edge of the plateau!” Caste did not realise it but his voice was rising as the minstrel’s wicked grin was deepening. “And do not get me started on your lustrous illusions about the sorceress Grail upon whom the Holy Order of clerics is founded. You practically called her a harlot and a seducer of monsters.”
“Tell me,” Giordi leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head and putting his feet upon the table, “what is your occupation that allows you to so acutely mock mine?”
Caste wanted to grind his teeth. “As if you could not tell when I am wearing the robes of a cleric.”
“Oh…and I thought you were an unfortunately crowned woman in a rather voluminous gown.”
“A woman in a gown?” Caste fired up. “It is because of people like you that the general populous believes all sorts of errant and inaccurate opinions and description about people who were perfectly normal. You’ve turned them all into…obscene heroes who bear no resemblance whatsoever to the truth.”
“I’m a minstrel,” Giordi replied with a shrug, “and as such I am prone to exaggeration so I will continue to ply my trade of wit and whimsy while you, as a cleric, can enjoy your facts during your monastic existence.”
Caste was going to retort when Sir Alaykin banged on the table and declared that some of the ladies wanted Gavoli to sing the song of the romancing of Grail. Giordi winked saucily at Caste, pushing his chair back and standing to oblige.
Unfortunately for Caste, the requests for melodies continued throughout the feasting and if that were not bad enough, he was paid handsomely for his obscene exaggerations and mediocre musical talent. Eventually Caste begged to leave the table because of a headache. He had intended on using the excuse earlier in the evening. However, now it was true.