Free The Table of Less Valued Knights by Marie Phillips Page B

surprisingly scrawny for a head cook.
    At the far end of the table, three gentlemen began an argument with the Archbishop over which was the best banquet food. The Archbishop favoured duckottapin – a duck stuffed with an otter stuffed with a terrapin – and put up a particularly spirited fight.
    ‘As Master of Hounds, may I put a claim in now for leftovers?’ said a dome-headed man sitting close to Sir John. ‘Before they all go as alms. It’s good for the dogs to vary their diet, and the villagers are quite happy with root vegetables year-round.’
    Silence. All the heads in the room turned to look at Martha.
    ‘What say you, Your Majesty?’ said Sir John.
    ‘Oh. I suppose so, yes,’ said Martha, who was still preoccupied by the thought of her wedding.
    Half the men at the table smiled and nodded, and the other half glowered.
    Was that it? My first ruling as queen?
    ‘Right then,’ said Sir John, ‘so let’s see. Apart from the wedding, funeral and coronation to arrange, you need to go over this year’s taxes and budget, check on the grain reserves, inspect the troops, cast your eye over the newest engineering projects (you’re goingto love our plans for the dam, though we do have a rebellion in the valley to stem – never mind, they’ll be a lot quieter after we’ve flooded them), make your maiden speech to your loving subjects, arrange a state visit to Camelot, assert your authority over the running of the castle and surrounding villages, sit in the civil court, sit in the criminal court, burn some deviants at the stake, and feed the dogs, as you just decreed … Shall we get started?’

Fifteen
    By the time of the dress fitting that evening, Martha was so exhausted she could barely stand, but she teetered in front of the mirror in the tower room where she was to be incarcerated all the same. She looked at herself from the side, and then from the front. Then from behind, peering over her shoulder, and then from the front again. It was undeniable: she looked terrible.
    ‘Perhaps with more corsetry?’ suggested Deborah. ‘And some padding? Around the tits area, Your Majesty?’
    ‘I’m already so corseted that I can’t sit down, or breathe, or eat, and we’re having an eighteen-course wedding banquet.’
    ‘Maybe if I shorten the sleeves,’ said Deborah. ‘Make a feature of your forearms.’
    ‘Or maybe if my wedding dress wasn’t black, or I actually wanted to get married, or my father hadn’t just died.’
    ‘I’ll try the sleeves,’ said Deborah.
    Martha held her arms out as Deborah jabbed her with pins.
    ‘Thank you, Deborah.’
    There was silence as Deborah considered the results.
    ‘The shorter sleeves aren’t working. That was a terrible idea,’ she said. ‘I’ll take them down again. But I’ll put some more frills on the bodice, bulk up the bust, that should help a bit. And the veil will cover your freckles.’
    ‘Perfect.’
    ‘By the time he finds out what you actually look like, it’ll be too late.’
    ‘That’s very comforting.’
    Encouraged by this, Deborah began stuffing handfuls of itchy lace into Martha’s cleavage.
    At that moment there was a knock at the door. Although she knew it would only be a temporary reprieve, Martha was relieved. ‘Who is it?’ she said.
    ‘It’s … Mistress … Smedley …’ came the reply. Martha could barely make out the words, as the woman in question was panting so hard from the effort of climbing the stairs.
    ‘Mistress Smedley?’ she said. ‘Why on earth? Deborah, let her in.’
    Deborah opened the door. Mistress Smedley, Martha’s former governess, half stood, half knelt on the stone threshold, scarlet-faced and bent double. She was not built for speed. Under one arm was a large, leather-bound book.
    ‘Your … Majesty …’ she gasped.
    ‘It is always a pleasure to see you, but what are you doing here?’ said Martha.
    ‘The King … is dead …’ wheezed Mistress Smedley.
    ‘Yes, I know. That’s