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Posted on January 16, 2014 at 06:35:50 AM by arthur
 “You shouldn’t run around in kitchens” Tristan said, as if reciting verbatim from a passage in a book, “because there are fires and hot pots, even knives. I might hurt myself or someone else...” The prince broke off and lifted his eyes from the floor, the corner of his mouth rising in a smirk that was an excellent imitation of one of his grandfather’s, “and the cook has a mean right hook.” The king kept his face straight frowned disapprovingly; he was rewarded for his effort when his son’s smile faltered before failing entirely. “You did hurt people, Tristan” Arthur pressed, counting off his son’s victims on the fingers of his right hand, “the boy who turns the spit burnt his hand on the stew pot, one of the serving boys fell backwards and hit his head off a cupboard, and one of the kitchen maids had a nasty falls when you pushed past her during your daring escape.” Tristan shuffled his feet again, “Sorry,” he mumbled, the sentiment more sincerely felt, but it wasn’t good enough for Arthur. When on earth would the boy learn? “If you were really sorry,” the king reminded him sharply, “then you’d stop doing it. You are thirteen years old; its time you started taking more responsibility for yourself.” Arthur pushed back his seat and stood up, marching to the door which he pulled open with a creaking of hinges. “Come with me.” The king marched Tristan down to the kitchens, greeting each of the guards they passed with a nod, and even sharing a smile with a couple of those who had had their own run ins with the prince in the past. Arthur was not deaf to the whispers around court that Tristan was out of control and irresponsible, but he denied them all with his silence. He knew his son. The boy was intelligent, brave, and surprisingly resourceful, he, like all teenagers, just needed to time. When they entered the area of the kitchen where all the staff ate their meals, everyone in the room climbed hastily to their feet. It was not every day that the king visited the lower levels of the castle. Arthur smiled warmly at them all, and pushed Tristan to stand at the top of the table. “Prince Tristan has something to say to you all,” he told them, catching the cook’s eye and trying not to smile. Tristan, knowing full well what was expected to him launched into an apologetic speech, and Arthur circumnavigated his way around the table until he reached the housekeeper. She was a thin bony woman with a bird-like nose and sharp eyes, but he had found her friendly enough. “The girl is outside,” explained the housekeeper nodding in the direction of the door which led to the back courtyard, “she said she hit her head and felt sick.” Arthur stepped out from the gloom of the kitchen into the pale glow of the winter sunshine. It was just a little after midday, but the air was still crisp with frost and his breath turned to smoke as his grey eyes scanned the cobbles. He saw the young woman sitting on one of the smaller water barrels on the opposite side of the yard, and walked over to her. “Are you all right, miss?” he asked her, his voice warm, eager not to scare her, “I must apologise for my son, he is...” Arthur paused, searching in vain for the right words, “young,” he finished lamely with a shrug, “I won’t let him leave until he has spoken to you himself.” |
Replies:
- you and me and the devil makes three - By Margaret January 18, 2014 at 11:41:07 AM
- and there are many paths to tread - By arthur January 20, 2014 at 05:54:31 AM
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