Eat the Poor

XI

The luncheon, meant as a casual affair, was served outdoors by the garden.

Of course, casual meant a dozen serving staff, four side tables topped with an extravagant display of food, and six violinists playing a lighthearted tune in the background.

The Duc de Montpensier, whom Philip pointed out to me among the circle of guests, was a tall, gray-faced man with a shriveled chin. The Duchesse was long dead, though, according to Philip, her husband had openly engaged in affairs with women all over the world while she lay ill.

He was hideous, too. Deep widow's peak down his forehead, long gray-white hair tied with a ribbon at the nape of his neck, bright orange boots that flared out at the top and clacked together as he walked.

He looked more like a ballroom jester than a duke.

Both his son and daughter were considerably better off in that department. They looked nearly identical, both having blue eyes and light, flaxen hair. The Duke's daughter wore hers pinned tightly at the back of her head, so that only a single curl was allowed to flow down her back.

"Your Majesty," one of the Frenchmen began, "it is an honor to introduce to you His Grace, Monsieur Jacques Jean-Gilbert, fils de France and Duc de Montpensier."

"Your Majesty." The Duke bowed.

Philip thrust out his hand and looked away as the Duke kissed it.

"His son Leopold Antoine, Marquis de Montpensier, and daughter Henriette," the man continued.

The Marquis looked about my age, perhaps only a year or two older. He was pitiably short with a head of fluffy locks like soft down. He gave us a sour frown and turned away.

Swiftly, the Duke grasped him by the elbow. He hissed something in French, the grip on his son tight enough to bruise.

"Bonjour," the Marquis forced out, then wrenched himself free.

"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," the girl followed, eyes down as she curtsied. She looked older than her brother, and slightly taller. "I hope you are fairing well. I wish to offer my deepest condolences for your loss."

All three of them had French accents, but hers was the most prominent. It was heavy and sweet, like nectar dripping from a flower.

"Thank you," Philip said. Through the corner of my eye, I searched his expression for the slightest hint of grief. It remained blank.

"Shall we sit?" The Duke gestured to the table. "I do look forward to this meal. Very fine spread indeed."

Philip forced a smile. His chair sat on a raised platform at the end of the table, to ensure that he would be higher off the ground than everyone else. "I hope you find it to your liking."

The luncheon included a variety of tastes, from goose to pheasant to mutton, potatoes and boiled eggs, bowls of garden salad, and, of course, several tiered platters of pastries. My stomach growled as the servants helped the guests into their seats.

Oh, to eat like this every day-

An elbow jabbed my rib. "The food, boy." The growl came from Chadwick Red, a senior servant of the castle. He was often known to wield the whip in punishing slackers.

I stumbled forward and grabbed a plate, then got in line behind the other servants making their way around the table. The King accepted a glass of wine and chugged it.

"Mutton?" I asked a portly gentleman.

He answered in a gruff cough. "Yes, yes, that's it."

The King's guests liked to eat. And eat they did, in the manner of starving hounds. Most of their mouths were so full by the time I got to their seat, they couldn't tell me how much mutton they wanted.