Balin and Columbine (A Children of the May Novella - Book 1.5b)

Chapter Seventeen: The Beauties at the Feast (part two)

The women prodded and pinched her, forcibly washed her in cold water, dragged brushes through her hair and stabbed her scalp with pins, all the time complaining that they would be lucky if Sir Garlon thought Columbine at all worthy to join him at the grand feast. They doused her in a sweet perfume, forced her into a red dress that pushed the swell of her breasts over the top of her bodice, and was so tight around the waist that she found it difficult to breathe. They clagged paint to her face and lips, which made her skin feel starved of air. As a final insult, the servant with the bag strangled her with a heavy necklace full of glittering jewels that sat tightly around her throat, but had sparking fronds that pointed straight down. Columbine had observed enough men looking at Lily to know that their eyes rarely needed guidance towards a girl’s chest. When the servant called Phyllis showed Columbine her own face in a cloudy mirrored glass, all the girl from Vellion could see was the strange mound of intricately coiling plaits that had once been her hair, the lips they had painted bright red to match the dress, and the glare of the necklace around her throat. She didn’t resemble herself at all.

‘It’ll do, do you think, Phyllis?’

‘Not exactly a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, my darling, but we’ve done the best we can with what we had.’

The process had taken what seemed like hours, and indeed, when they allowed Columbine to stand on her tricky new shoes there was darkness outside. She tottered over to the window and saw torchlight far below. Cheers and music drifted up from the camp at the bottom of the rock. She longed to be down there where the fun was, rather than caught up in the trappings of King Pellam’s court.

The two servants left, pointedly thanking Columbine for thanks she had not given them.

She felt ridiculous as she entered the great hall of Spar-Longius. Sir Garlon had told her to take his hand, but she was insulted by the way he presented his forearm as if she needed support. She had quickly mastered the high shoes by thinking of the stance they forced her into as one she used when rock climbing. She did not need Sir Garlon to keep her upright.

The hall was arranged in the traditional style, with a grand table on a raised platform across the width of the room, where the king and queen would soon join the other folk of highest rank. Twenty further tables went down the length of the room, perpendicular to the high table. The rest of the guests sat along these. The further away from the high table you were placed, the lower your rank.

Though the feast had not formally begun, Columbine and Garlon were two of the last to take their seats. He guided her between the servants and crowded tables, leading her eventually to a bench near the head of a table at the far right of the hall. Her back was to the wall, which was where she felt most comfortable, and it was a good place from which to observe the rest of the room.

There were hundreds of knights and ladies crammed into the hall. Sir Breuse Saunce Pité’s back faced her on the next table, his blonde daughter on his right side and his dark wife on his left. Columbine scanned the room, looking for familiar faces. The chairs of the king and queen were empty, but the rest of the high table had taken their seats.

Columbine’s breath caught against her will when she saw the young man who had taken the seat on the immediate left of the queen’s empty chair. Even though her eye was not well trained to recognise such things, she felt his staggering beauty hit her like a hammer. His face was framed in golden curls, his eyes keen and soft at the same time. His lips had a bee-stung appearance, and his skin almost glowed with the sheer health contained within his form. The one blemish on his skin, a mole near his left eye that looked almost like a teardrop, only served to enhance his beauty; it announced the gorgeousness of the rest of him like a town crier. A long white cloak flowed from his shoulders, and the silver dress armour he wore was at once incredibly well made, and casually worn. He was studiously ignoring both the very beautiful young woman in the white dress sat on his left, and the many, many pretty girls in the hall who gave him long meaningful glances, before turning back to giggle with their friends. He didn’t favour any one of them with a smile, but looked into the middle-distance, not recognising anyone. He was the prettiest sad angel Columbine had ever seen.