Harlan raised an eyebrow, then levelled it. ‘Majesty.’
They could all believe what they wanted. It was done, and even his father could not without effort and further scandal undo it.
Meilyr was brought into Eascild’s Great Hall with the shout of a herald, on Prince Osian’s arm, to rapturous applause.
Consort.
There was cheering, muddled with murmuring. Atoastas Meilyr was seated – devastatingly – at the head table, atop a small dais, beside the prince.
It was some sort of miracle he had not been violently sick on the way here. This was far more than he could possibly have prepared himself for. He had spent years in carefully constructed routine, avoiding anything that might draw attention to himself, clinging to the quiet familiarity of the apothecary and the few brief things that took him beyond it.
His overstimulated mind snagged uncomfortably on details. The wall behind the high table was taken up almost entirely by the largest tapestry he had ever seen: a gory, stylised depiction of the killing of Y Ddraig Goch, impaled and captured in an instant of acute agony beneath the claws of the White Dragon, and the lance of the not-yet King Adair, their golden hair interwoven with bursts of sunlight.
At least it was behind the head table, so he did not have to stomach the violence whilst attempting to eat.
A vast, ridiculous dinner sprawled across the numerous long tables of the hall. It was more food than he could have imagined in one place: two great boars, stuffed and staring, several half-plucked peacocks, littered with garnish and vegetables, more meat, mounds of bread in various shapes, entire wheels of cheeses, vats of stews and soups, and so much wine they must have drawn it straight from a river.
What a waste. These people could not possibly eat all this.
‘Try to eat, if you can.’ It was the first thing the prince had said to him since the ceremony: low, and close to his ear. ‘If there is nothing you like, we can have something else made?’
He referred to Meilyr’s untouched plate. It would probably reflect poorly on the prince if his newhusbanddid not like the feast prepared in honour of their union.
‘Thank you, Your Majesty. This is fine.’ He forced himself to have some of the carrots and worried the boar. It bled across the plate, and he swallowed more bile. Meat was always touch and go for his weaver senses, and definitely not worth it today. He went for the bread, softened it in a small bowl of vegetable soup and forced himself to chew.
Stringed music and song lilted, and the strict seating arrangements loosened. Many clapped shoulders with others, embarked upon games of talon or delved into further drinking. Several approached the high table, with various points of order for the prince or to offer congratulations.
To Meilyr’s private horror, the prince introduced each to him personally: nobles, courtiers, Justices – from the Principality itself and from the neighbouring Marches. Their names and faces blurred, his mind worse off than his plate: muddled, over-filled and going cold.
Several people in particular stood out.
‘The Principality’s captain of the crownsworn,’ Prince Osian introduced. ‘Captain Barrett Radnor. Captain.’
The captain was a severe older man, no less strong in build than any knight half his age. He had approached the dais with the overt air of someone facing a particularly unpleasant but necessary part of his job, helming an outpouring of displeasure and disdain, seemingly aimed at both Meilyr and the prince.
At least he was easy to read.
‘Majesty. Highness.’ A beat. ‘A shame your father could not be here to oversee the union. He will be disappointed.’
Probably in more ways than one.
Prince Osian smiled and said, ‘I am sure he will come to see the benefits of strengthening ties between our territories.’
The captain’s jaw twitched.Territorieswas not a word Meilyr had heard in conjunction with Cyngalon. Radnor was also the familial name of one of the Earls of March, so the captain was probably a relation.
The captain put his hand to his chest and bowed stiffly. ‘Blessings upon your union.’
With that, he departed.
Captain of the crownsworn.Celyn had killed one of his men earlier. How aware of today’s events was he?
Meilyr felt the stare of the next person to the dais before they approached, and any comfort he felt at Captain Radnor’s departure dissipated with a twist of his stomach.
‘Lord Leighton.’ Tension lined the prince’s jaw. ‘The Earl of Sanford March.’
There were four Earls of March: each reigned like kings in their own right over the regions granted them by the Crown, lands stolen from Cyngalon during the conquest. Sanford was the March nearest the Principality, and its earl was draped in fine fabrics and gaudy embellishments, content to show off the fruits of his position.
Meilyr had never heard a good word said about him. Quite the opposite, in fact.