Vyrwel began to weep, though no one was
quite certain as to the cause of her distress.
All the while the wine kept
flowing. The rich Arbor reds gave way to local vintages, or so the Fiddler
said; if truth be told, Dunk could not tell the difference. There was hippocras
as well, he had to try a cup of that. It might be a year before I have
another. The other hedge knights, fine fellows all, had begun to talk of
women they had known. Dunk found himself wondering where Tanselle was tonight.
He knew where Lady Rohanne was—abed at Coldmoat Castle, with old Ser Eustace
beside her, snoring through his mustache—so he tried not to think of her. Do
they ever think of me? he wondered.
His melancholy ponderings were
rudely interrupted when a troupe of painted dwarfs came bursting from the belly
of a wheeled wooden pig to chase Lord Butterwell’s fool about the tables,
walloping him with inflated pig’s bladders that made rude noises every time a
blow was struck. It was the funniest thing Dunk had seen in years, and he
laughed with all the rest. Lord Frey’s son was so taken by their antics that he
joined in, pummeling the wedding guests with a bladder borrowed from a dwarf.
The child had the most irritating laugh Dunk had ever heard, a high shrill
hiccup of a laugh that made him want to take the boy over a knee or throw him
down a well. If he hits me with that bladder, I may do it.
“There’s the lad who made this
marriage,” Ser Maynard said as the chinless urchin went screaming past.
“How so?” The Fiddler held up an
empty wine cup, and a passing server filled it.
Ser Maynard glanced toward the
dais, where the bride was feeding cherries to her husband. “His Lordship will
not be the first to butter that biscuit. His bride was deflowered by a scullion
at the Twins, they say. She would creep down to the kitchens to meet him. Alas,
one night that little brother of hers crept down after her. When he saw them
making the two-backed beast, he let out a shriek, and cooks and guardsmen came
running and found milady and her pot boy coupling on the slab of marble where
the cook rolls out the dough, both naked as their name day and floured up from
head to heel.”
That cannot be true, Dunk thought. Lord Butterwell
had broad lands, and pots of yellow gold. Why would he wed a girl who’d been
soiled by a kitchen scullion, and give away his dragon’s egg to mark the match?
The Freys of the Crossing were no nobler than the Butterwells. They owned a
bridge instead of cows, that was the only difference. Lords. Who can ever
understand them? Dunk ate some nuts and pondered what he’d overheard whilst
pissing. Dunk the drunk, what is it that you think you heard? He had
another cup of hippocras, since the first had tasted good. Then he lay his head
down atop his folded arms and closed his eyes just for a moment, to rest them
from the smoke.
* * * *
When
he opened them again, half the wedding guests were on their feet and shouting,
“Bed them! Bed them!” They were making such an uproar than they woke Dunk from
a pleasant dream involving Tanselle Too-Tall and the Red Widow. “Bed them! Bed
them!” the calls rang out. Dunk sat up and rubbed his eyes.
Ser Franklyn Frey had the bride
in his arms and was carrying her down the aisle, with men and boys swarming all
around him. The ladies at the high table had surrounded Lord Butterwell. Lady
Vyrwel had recovered from her grief and was trying to pull His Lordship from
his chair, while one of his daughters unlaced his boots and some Frey woman
pulled up his tunic. Butterwell was flailing at them ineffectually, and
laughing. He was drunk, Dunk saw, and Ser Franklyn was a deal drunker ... so
drunk, he almost dropped the bride. Before Dunk quite realized what was
happening, John the Fiddler had dragged him to his feet. “Here!” he cried out.
“Let the giant carry her!”
The next thing he knew, he was
climbing a tower stair with the bride
quite certain as to the cause of her distress.
All the while the wine kept
flowing. The rich Arbor reds gave way to local vintages, or so the Fiddler
said; if truth be told, Dunk could not tell the difference. There was hippocras
as well, he had to try a cup of that. It might be a year before I have
another. The other hedge knights, fine fellows all, had begun to talk of
women they had known. Dunk found himself wondering where Tanselle was tonight.
He knew where Lady Rohanne was—abed at Coldmoat Castle, with old Ser Eustace
beside her, snoring through his mustache—so he tried not to think of her. Do
they ever think of me? he wondered.
His melancholy ponderings were
rudely interrupted when a troupe of painted dwarfs came bursting from the belly
of a wheeled wooden pig to chase Lord Butterwell’s fool about the tables,
walloping him with inflated pig’s bladders that made rude noises every time a
blow was struck. It was the funniest thing Dunk had seen in years, and he
laughed with all the rest. Lord Frey’s son was so taken by their antics that he
joined in, pummeling the wedding guests with a bladder borrowed from a dwarf.
The child had the most irritating laugh Dunk had ever heard, a high shrill
hiccup of a laugh that made him want to take the boy over a knee or throw him
down a well. If he hits me with that bladder, I may do it.
“There’s the lad who made this
marriage,” Ser Maynard said as the chinless urchin went screaming past.
“How so?” The Fiddler held up an
empty wine cup, and a passing server filled it.
Ser Maynard glanced toward the
dais, where the bride was feeding cherries to her husband. “His Lordship will
not be the first to butter that biscuit. His bride was deflowered by a scullion
at the Twins, they say. She would creep down to the kitchens to meet him. Alas,
one night that little brother of hers crept down after her. When he saw them
making the two-backed beast, he let out a shriek, and cooks and guardsmen came
running and found milady and her pot boy coupling on the slab of marble where
the cook rolls out the dough, both naked as their name day and floured up from
head to heel.”
That cannot be true, Dunk thought. Lord Butterwell
had broad lands, and pots of yellow gold. Why would he wed a girl who’d been
soiled by a kitchen scullion, and give away his dragon’s egg to mark the match?
The Freys of the Crossing were no nobler than the Butterwells. They owned a
bridge instead of cows, that was the only difference. Lords. Who can ever
understand them? Dunk ate some nuts and pondered what he’d overheard whilst
pissing. Dunk the drunk, what is it that you think you heard? He had
another cup of hippocras, since the first had tasted good. Then he lay his head
down atop his folded arms and closed his eyes just for a moment, to rest them
from the smoke.
* * * *
When
he opened them again, half the wedding guests were on their feet and shouting,
“Bed them! Bed them!” They were making such an uproar than they woke Dunk from
a pleasant dream involving Tanselle Too-Tall and the Red Widow. “Bed them! Bed
them!” the calls rang out. Dunk sat up and rubbed his eyes.
Ser Franklyn Frey had the bride
in his arms and was carrying her down the aisle, with men and boys swarming all
around him. The ladies at the high table had surrounded Lord Butterwell. Lady
Vyrwel had recovered from her grief and was trying to pull His Lordship from
his chair, while one of his daughters unlaced his boots and some Frey woman
pulled up his tunic. Butterwell was flailing at them ineffectually, and
laughing. He was drunk, Dunk saw, and Ser Franklyn was a deal drunker ... so
drunk, he almost dropped the bride. Before Dunk quite realized what was
happening, John the Fiddler had dragged him to his feet. “Here!” he cried out.
“Let the giant carry her!”
The next thing he knew, he was
climbing a tower stair with the bride
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