Chapter 4: Whispers
That evening, Fred decided to take a break from the castle and get some fresh air. The walls felt like they were pressing in, the weight of every ledger entry and suspicious glance a physical pressure on his chest. He needed space where he wasn’t the Seneschal, just a guy in a cloak.
He walked out of the castle wall and down the short road to the neighbouring village. The spring air was cool, carrying the damp-earth smell of the Thames and the distant woodsmoke from cottages. Westminster’s shadow didn’t quite reach here; the lane was just mud, ruts, and freedom.
Pulling up the hood of his cloak to avoid being recognised, he entered the tavern and takes a seat at the bar. The place was a roar of warmth and life after the castle’s whispered corridors. The fire in the hearth was massive, cracking and spitting. The air was thick with the smell of burning peat, spilled beer, and unwashed bodies—a honest, grimy perfume. A fiddler sawed out a frantic tune in the corner, half-drowned by laughter and the thunder of dice on tabletops.
He orders a tankard of ale and tosses some coins onto the bar. He leans back in his seat, relaxing in the noise and music of the tavern. For the first time all day, his shoulders unhitched from around his ears. Here, no one cared about floral allocations or the strategic implications of a pork loin.
The barmaid brings him his drink and he sips it slowly, losing himself in the sweet, smoky taste of the liquid. It was cheap, rough stuff, a world away from the spiced hippocras of the high table. It was perfect. He watched the room, the simple dramas of a farmer arm-wrestling a carter, a group of apprentices singing a bawdy song badly. It was life, raw and uncalculated.
He finishes his drink and is about to leave when he hears a couple of voices to the left. One is de Vere.
The sound was like a bucket of that same cold ale dumped down his spine. Fred didn’t jerk, didn’t turn. He simply placed his empty tankard down slowly, the clay thunking softly on the worn wood.
The other, Fred did not know. The voice was lower, grittier, with a rural clip to it that didn’t belong in a noble’s mouth.
He casually leans against a nearby wooden pillar, grabbing another tankard of ale from a barmaid’s tray and sipping it, blending in. He became part of the furniture, a hooded man nursing a drink, his face turned just enough to catch the murmur from the shadowed booth in the corner.
De Vere’s voice was a polished knife in the din. “…confirmed. The boy is more than a useful pair of hands. He has the Princess’s ear. Her… affection, it seems.”
So Simon had reported to him. The confirmation was a cold, sharp stone in Fred’s gut. He makes a mental note to deal with the boy sooner rather than later. The thought was not angry, but clinical. A loose thread needed tying, or cutting.
The stranger grunted. “A problem?”
“A variable. One that makes the equation more interesting. Affection is a lever. You can move people with it.” De Vere paused, and Fred heard the soft clink of a tankard being set down. “This tournament of nobles that has the town buzzing. The upstart’s idea?”
The stranger asks about the tournament of nobles that has the town buzzing.
De Vere tells him that it is apparently the main event of the May Day festivities happening next week. His tone was dismissive, bored. “A crude spectacle. Let the bulls lock horns in the dirt. It keeps them focused on each other, not on the hand that holds the ring.”
The stranger asks him if he is participating.
De Vere says he isn’t sure, but he will enter the tournament if it suits his purposes. A low, humourless chuckle. “Imagine the symbolism. The old guard, cutting down the young, fiery rivals in front of the king and his… favored servant. It sends a message. Or, perhaps, I simply watch and learn who is strong, who is rash, who can be bought afterwards when they’re nursing their pride and their wounds.”
They finish their ale, shake hands, and depart. Fred remains out of sight as they leave. He watched from the shadow of the pillar as de Vere, dressed in a dark, unostentatious cloak, moved smoothly toward the door. The stranger followed, a broad-shouldered man in a worn leather jerkin, his head down.
While he can’t see the stranger’s face, something about him feels familiar. The set of the shoulders, the slightly lopsided gait—as if one knee didn’t bend quite right. It nagged at him, a ghost of a memory scratching at a door he couldn’t open. A carter? A labourer from the castle yards? The voice, the walk… it itched.
Fred waited a full minute, then slipped out after them, leaving the half-finished ale on a barrel. The cool night air hit him. The lane was quiet, empty. De Vere would be halfway back to the castle by now, taking the main gate. The stranger was gone, swallowed by the warren of footpaths behind the tavern that led toward the river docks.
He stood there, the tavern’s laughter muffled behind him. De Vere knew. The tournament was seen as a tool, a stage for his machinations. And the stranger…
The memory snapped into place, crisp and chilling.
Two winters ago. A brutal freeze. The castle’s outer wall had needed emergency repairs. The master mason had hired day-labourers, big men used to hauling stone. One of them, a surly brute from Kent, had gotten into a fight with a stable hand over a stolen sausage. Fred, then still mostly in the kitchens, had been sent to break it up with a bucket of kitchen slops. The labourer had swung at him, missed, and sprawled on the icy cobbles, cursing. Fred had stood over him, not with fists, but with the authority of the castle’s larder. “Touch me and your whole crew loses its hot supper. Now get up.”
The man had gotten up, shooting Fred a look of pure, venomous hatred. He’d had that same lopsided walk, favouring his left leg, as he was led away. And he’d had that same gritty Kentish accent.
What was a day-labourer from Kent doing shaking hands with Baron de Vere in a Westminster tavern? And why would de Vere, a man who plotted with dukes and bishops, meet with a common mason’s hand?
Unless the work wasn’t masonry.
The highway robbery. The king’s levy. The gold, stolen on the road from Kent.
Fred’s breath clouded in the dark air. The connection was tenuous, a spider’s thread. But it was there. De Vere was meeting with a man who might have been a robber. A man who knew the Kent road. Who knew about violence.
He turned and walked back toward the castle, his pace brisk, his mind racing faster. Simon was a immediate problem, a sneaking weasel in the granary. But this… this was the wolf itself, circling outside the fence.
He needed more. A name. A confirmation. He couldn’t go to the king with a hunch about a labourer’s limp. He needed to pull on this thread and see what unraveled.
As he passed under the shadow of the gatehouse, the warm, confined smell of the castle enveloped him—stone, rushes, torch smoke. The Seneschal was back. The break was over. The game had just gotten deadlier, and the only move he had was to keep building a festival, while underneath the dancing floor, he started digging a trap.
The game had just gotten deadlier, and the only move he had was to keep building a festival, while underneath the dancing floor, he started digging a trap.
FRED WENT BACK DOWN TO THE KITCHENS TO PREPARE DINNER.
The heat was a solid wall, a familiar embrace. HE DID THE USUAL ROUNDS, MAKING SURE EVERYTHING WAS WHERE IT NEEDED TO BE. Knives were sharp, the spits turned evenly, and the stockpot bubbled with a rhythm steadier than a heartbeat. His hands, calloused and sure, checked temperatures and tasted sauces without conscious thought, his mind still in that dark tavern.
HE HEADED DOWN TO THE WINE CELLAR, FILLING FLAGONS WITH WINE AND SETTING THEM ON A SERVING TRAY. The cool, damp air smelled of earth and oak. The quiet was absolute, broken only by the glug of liquid and his own breathing. It was a pocket of peace before the performance.
HE WALKED BACK UP THE STAIRS AND OUT INTO THE SERVICE PASS, BEFORE ENTERING THE DINING HALL AND POURING THE WINE INTO THE GOBLETS OF THE MEN SEATED AT THE TABLE. The hall was alive with pre-meal chatter, a dozen conversations crisscrossing over the long table. De Vere was there, laughing at some baron’s joke, his gray eyes flicking around the room. They passed over Fred as if he were a piece of the architecture.
HE ENSURED EVERYONE’S GOBLET WAS FULL BEFORE MOVING BACK TO THE KITCHEN AND FETCHING THE MEAT.
A MASSIVE ROAST BOAR, FRESHLY HUNTED BY THE SQUIRES THAT MORNING, SAT ON A TRAY SURROUNDED BY VEGETABLES, A LARGE APPLE PLACED IN ITS MOUTH. Its skin crackled, glazed and shining under the kitchen torches. The weight of the tray was immense, a test of strength and balance. He hefted it, feeling the strain in his shoulders, and led the procession.
THE SERVANTS BEHIND HIM CARRIED OUT SECONDARY DISHES; ROAST LAMB, STEAK, AND OTHER MEATS AND VEGETABLES. They moved in a silent, practiced line, a nerve-impulse of service flowing from the kitchen’s heart to the hall’s belly. The din of conversation dipped, then rose with appreciative murmurs.
THE SERVANTS PLACED THEM IN THE CENTRE OF THE TABLE, BOWED RESPECTFULLY TO THE KING, AND LEFT.
Fred was the last to turn. His job was done. He could vanish back into the stone.
FRED WAS ABOUT TO HEAD BACK TO THE KITCHENS WHEN ELEANOR HALTED HIM.
“Seneschal,” she said, her voice clear and carrying. All eyes at the table subtly shifted. She was playing a public game now, the capricious princess. “The planning has given me quite an appetite, but it’s also made me curious about the provenance of this boar. The squires who hunted it—are they here?”
SHE REQUESTED THAT SHE SIT NEXT TO HIM FOR THE MEAL.
It was a blunt, ridiculous command. A princess did not sit in the service pass. “Your Highness, there’s no proper seat,” he said, keeping his voice low, a servant’s deferential murmur.
“Then fetch a stool. I’m dining here tonight. I want to hear how the kitchens actually work on a feast night.” Her smile was bright, challenging, and entirely for the audience. “From the source.”
FRED HESITATED, LOOKING AT THE KING FOR PERMISSION.
King Henry had watched the whole exchange, a piece of bread paused halfway to his mouth. His face was unreadable, a mask of weary royalty. He chewed slowly, his gaze moving from his daughter’s defiant posture to Fred’s rigid confusion.
THE KING RAISED HIS EYEBROW AT THE BOTH OF THEM BEFORE NODDING HIS CONSENT.
“If the Seneschal can spare the time from his many duties,” the king said, his dry tone leaving no one sure if it was indulgence or sarcasm. “Let her learn where her food comes from. It’s a lesson more nobles could use.”
A servant scrambled to bring a carved stool, placing it opposite Fred’s small, functional station along the wall. Eleanor sat, arranging her skirts with a flourish. The table gradually returned to its noise, though Fred felt the heat of sidelong glances, especially from de Vere’s quadrant.
“This is mad,” Fred muttered under his breath, leaning forward as if to adjust a flagon.
“It’s brilliant,” she whispered back, her smile fixed for the room. She speared a piece of boar from the platter a server brought over. “Now we can talk. In front of everyone. No one suspects a thing if you do it right under their noses.”
“Simon suspects. He saw us. He told de Vere.”
Her knife paused. “I know. That’s why this is necessary. We establish a public reason for our rapport. Festival business. My eccentricity. We lean into it so hard the truth becomes boring.” She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “This is good. A bit heavy on the thyme, though.”
He almost laughed, the tension in his chest loosening a fraction. “Noted, Your Highness.”
“So. The tavern.” She kept her eyes on her plate, her voice a low hum only he could catch. “What did you learn?”
He described the stranger, the limp, the accent. The memory of the labourer from Kent. “It’s a thread,” he finished. “But I need a name. I can’t ask the master mason without raising an alarm.”
Eleanor swirled the wine in her goblet. “The master mason is old Robert. He loves his records and hates the barons who never pay his invoices on time.” She glanced slyly at him. “He also has a terrible weakness for candied oranges. The kitchen gets a shipment for the festival tomorrow.”
Fred felt a slow smile spread. “Does it?”
“I may have already asked for a small box to be set aside. For ‘royal sampling.’ You should check the quality. In his quarters. With the ledger of his men open on his desk, perhaps, while he’s distracted.”
Their eyes met. The understanding was instant, a current of perfect alignment. She was already digging the trap with him.
“Thank you,” he said, the words heartfelt.
“Don’t thank me. Just make sure the candied oranges are actually good. I’m risking my sweet tooth for this.” She leaned back, raising her voice for the benefit of Lord Chelmsford, who was eavesdropping openly. “So, Seneschal, the ribbon for the Maypole. The crimson or the cerise? I’m thinking cerise. It’s bolder.”
They spent the rest of the meal discussing ribbons, and tent fabric, and the merits of different minstrel groups. It was all utterly mundane. It was a masterpiece of misdirection.
As the last plates were cleared, Eleanor stood, brushing crumbs from her lap. “A productive dinner. You may return to your domain, Seneschal.” Her tone was dismissive, royally bored.
He bowed. As he straightened, he saw Simon across the hall, clearing a trencher. The boy’s eyes were wide, darting between Fred and the princess, utterly confused by the public, mundane display. The poisonous secret he’d sold now looked like worthless gossip.
Fred gave him a small, professional nod. Nothing to see here.
He walked back to the kitchens, the ghost of thyme and oranges in the air. The trap had two parts now: the candy for the mason, and the glaring, harmless spotlight he and Eleanor would stand in. He started mentally composing a list for the morrow: inspect festival ropes, review guard rotations for the tournament grounds, and pay a visit to old Robert with a box of sweet, sticky bribes.
The festival was a distraction. He would build the hell out of it.
He would build the hell out of it.
The kitchen’s residual heat clung to his tunic as he finally escaped, the noise fading behind the thick service door. The stone corridors of the servants’ levels were quiet now, just the drip of condensation and the scrape of his own boots. His muscles ached with a familiar, deep-set fatigue, but his mind wouldn’t settle, jumping from mason’s ledgers to the stranger’s lopsided gait.
His quarters were a small room granted to the Seneschal, more cupboard than chamber, but it was his. A narrow bed, a stool, a shelf for his few possessions. He lit the single permitted candle with a spark from his flint, the flame painting frantic shadows on the bare wall.
AFTER FRED HAD CLEARED THE DINING HALL, HE RETIRED TO HIS QUARTERS TO REVIEW HIS LEDGER FOR THE CELEBRATION TOMORROW.
The book was a dense block of vellum and worry. He spread it open on his bed, the pages rustling like dry leaves. Columns of numbers for lantern oil, sacks of flour, wages for the acrobats. His eyes scanned the figures, but the totals swam. All he could see was the cost of a single misstep.
He rubbed his eyes, grit scratching under his lids. The candle flame guttered.
HE WAS ABOUT TO TURN IN FOR THE NIGHT WHEN THE DOOR TO HIS ROOM OPENED.
It swung inward without a knock, smooth and silent. He jolted upright, hand instinctively reaching for the knife he kept on the shelf. The light from the corridor behind her was a faint halo, then the door clicked shut.
IT WAS ELEANOR.
But she wasn’t wearing her usual royal garb. The dim room seemed to brighten, the air thinning. Instead, she was clad in a beautiful, radiant brilliant white dress, complete with golden highlights and buttons. The fabric wasn’t heavy velvet but something lighter, maybe silk from the east, and it caught the weak candlelight, shimmering with every slight movement.
A laurel of green olive leaves adorned her head, matching the green of her eyes perfectly.
Her skin glowed softly in the dim torchlight, and her green eyes sparkled beautifully. She was stunning.
Fred’s breath left him in a quiet rush. He stood, the ledger sliding to the floor with a dull thud. He wasn't prepared for this. The calculated princess from dinner was gone, replaced by something from a story, a vision of spring and sovereignty that made his chest hurt.
FRED HAD TO MAKE A MASSIVE EFFORT TO FORCE HIS EYES FROM THE SUBTLE CURVE OF HER WAIST AND LOOK INTO HER EYES.
“Eleanor,” he managed, his voice rough. “What are you—”
ELEANOR LET OUT A SOFT GIGGLE AT FRED’S AMAZEMENT, AND EXPLAINED THAT THIS WAS HER OUTFIT FOR THE MAY QUEEN CELEBRATION TOMORROW.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, her smile a little nervous now under his stare. She smoothed the dress over her hips. “I wanted to see it in a different light. Not just in the seamstress’s solar. And I… I wanted you to see it first.”
FRED SAID SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL.
The word was utterly insufficient. It sounded stupid, small. He said it anyway. “You’re beautiful.”
SHE THANKED HIM FOR THE COMPLIMENT AND SAT DOWN NEXT TO HIM, HER HAND FINDING HIS.
She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, the white silk pooling around her. Her fingers laced through his, cool and sure. The calluses on his palms were a stark contrast to her skin.
“Is it too much?” she asked, her gaze searching his face. “The dress. The idea.”
He shook his head, unable to form another sentence. Her closeness was a physical shock, the scent of her—lavender and a faint, clean sweat—filling the tiny room.
SHE ASKED IF EVERYTHING WAS READY FOR THE FESTIVAL.
“Is it all ready? Truly?” Her thumb stroked the back of his hand, a slow, unconscious rhythm.
FRED SAID IT WAS AS READY AS IT WAS GOING TO BE.
“It’s ready,” he said, glancing at the fallen ledger. “Or, it’s as ready as it can be until tomorrow happens. The meat’s butchered. The tents are pitched. The lists are drawn. Now we just see if it holds.”
ELEANOR LOOKED INTO HIS EYES AND SMILED SOFTLY.
She leaned in, her shoulder pressing against his. The olive leaves in her hair brushed his temple. “It’ll hold. You built it.”
SHE HAD FULL CONFIDENCE IN HIS ABILITIES.
“I have full confidence,” she whispered. Her eyes were inches away, wide and serious. “In you.”
IN HER EYES, THIS WAS GOING TO BE THE BEST MAY DAY FESTIVAL SHE HAD EVER EXPERIENCED.
“This will be the best one. The most real one.” She bit her lip, the confident princess gone again, leaving just a young woman in a borrowed moment. “Because you made it.”
He turned his hand to grip hers tighter. The world outside this room—de Vere, Simon, the king’s dying light, the stranger with the limp—all of it receded, muted by the rustle of silk and her quiet breathing. For these few stolen seconds, there was no plot, no station, no peril. There was just her hand in his, and the terrifying, exhilarating certainty that whatever happened tomorrow, it would change everything.