I did so. The fiery taste made me grab my wine cup. I took a deep gulp to wash out my burning mouth.
‘The answer is “pepper”,’ said Berenger, grinning.
As we ate, a group of musicians entered the hall and began to play. The noise of their fiddles, pipes and drums made conversation difficult so I covertly studied the guests at the councillors’ table. Several important-looking men wore chains of office. I supposed they were the high officers of state, the seneschal, the count of the palace, the high chamberlain, and the keeper of the royal stables. This last individual, Hroudland had told me, commanded the royal guard. Alcuin and his fellow priests sat in a group, forming a sombre block of brown and drab among the other splendidly dressed dignitaries, whose costumes were bright with rich reds and blues, their necks and fingers heavy with gold jewellery. I presumed they were the dukes and counts whom the king appointed to rule the provinces. Among them the foxy-faced man whom I had noticed earlier was in earnest conversation with his neighbour, but something told me that he was very aware that I was watching him.
‘Who’s that in the yellow tunic, the one with the shock of grey hair?’ I asked Hroudland when the musicians finally began to put away their instruments.
Hroudland glanced across the hall.
‘That viper is my stepfather, Ganelon,’ he said icily. ‘He’s a charlatan and opportunist.’
I would have liked to have found out the reason for his dislike but a hush fell on the assembly. A man carrying a stool in one hand and a small harp in the other had walked into the open space between the tables.
Berenger gave a low groan of dismay.
‘This will be worse than theology,’ he said.
The newcomer set the stool down, bowed to the king, and announced loudly, ‘With your permission, my Lord, today I tell of the great warrior Troilus, son of King Priam, and how he met his death at the hands of the noble Achilles.’
Beside me, Hroudland said in a low voice, ‘Another of my uncle’s foibles. At meal times he loves to hear the tales of ancient heroes.’
The bard cleared his throat, placed one foot on the stool, set his harp upon his knee, and after plucking a few chords, launched into his tale. I watched the king’s face as I tried to decide whether he was genuinely enjoying the performance. He sat expressionless, not eating, only toying with a piece of bread with a large, powerful hand on which a massive gold ring was set with a large ruby.
I already knew the Troilus story. It had been a favourite of my old teacher, Bertwald.
The bard droned on. He had a high-pitched, rather irritating voice, and an unfortunate tendency to lay the stress on the wrong words. I began to sympathize with Berenger’s dismay, and wondered how long the performance would last. The wooden bench was uncomfortable.
The bard plodded through his narrative: Troilus was the most beautiful youth in Troy, a famous warrior, and an adept handler of horses. Daily he went beyond the city walls to exercise his chariot team on the plain before Troy. Afterwards he brought them to a sacred grove to water them at a spring. Knowing his routine, the Greeks set upon him. But he defeated them, wounding king Menalaus, and even put the renowned Myrmidons to flight. When word of this humiliation reached Achilles, the greatest champion of the Greeks, he vowed to exact revenge. He put on his armour and hid in ambush at the sacred grove.
The bard paused. He took a sip of water and fiddled with his harp, tightening a couple of strings. I knew he was doing it for dramatic effect.
Incautiously I muttered to Hroudland, ‘He’s not mentioned the main reason why Achilles had to kill the youth.’
Either the king’s hearing was abnormally acute or I had taken too much of Anseis’s wine and spoken louder than intended. A high-pitched royal voice barked, ‘You! If you know the story so well, why don’t you finish it?!’
I looked up, dismayed. Carolus was glaring at me with those large pale eyes, his mouth set in an angry line.
‘Go on, young man,’ he rasped. ‘Show us you can do better.’
I felt the blood drain from my face. The king continued to stare angrily at me. I was aware of the sudden silence, the entire company watching and waiting for my reaction. Engeler made a faint, clucking sound with his tongue. He was enjoying my humiliation.
Perhaps it was a further effect of the wine, but somehow I found the courage to get to my feet. Without looking at the king, I walked over to where the bard was standing, harp in hand, a look of disgust on his face.
With an ironic gesture he offered me the harp, but I waved it aside. I was no musician. Smirking, he retreated a few paces and stood with arms folded waiting for me to make a fool of myself.