Page 85 of The Sun King's Noon
Then came the pie.
The company had parked for the night near a stand of narrow trees while the cook-wagon distributed rabbit pies. Richard had at last managed to gather all five children within his sight and had just sat on a stool to eat when the pie hit him square in the face.
It was a very good pie. He registered that, distantly, as the filling slid down his cheeks and into his collar. Excellent crust, light and flaky—the kind that took true talent with the rolling pin—and tasty filling. Cook Shirley would have approved.
Most of it was now in his hair.
The circus exploded. Talia, the tattooed lady, threw back her head and howled. The snake-keeper wiped her eyes on her python. Even Master Clemens—perched on his driver’s bench—was wheezing.
“What did we tell him?” the contortionist crowed. “What did we tell him?”
“Crying by teatime, we said?—”
“—and look at him, the poor lamb?—”
“—pie and all, by the gods?—”
Flint, leaning against a tree, also chortled, joking with the horse-keeper. Kaelen was nowhere to be seen, likely with Boris. And the triplets—no doubt the culprits—cackled, holding one another upright. By them, Jeya was struggling to hide her smile.
Richard set his slice of pie upon the grass and wiped the streaks of rabbit filling from his eyes with two thumbs. He stood, pastry crumbs scattering from his collar, and stared back at the howling crowd.
For a while, the shrieks lingered, but as he swept his gaze over them, one by one, the laughter died. Tilda’s giggles faltered as Richard looked her way, and the contortionist cleared her throat awkwardly. Wren coughed and abruptly found his shoes fascinating.
The triplets tried to keep laughing, but even they fell silent as Richard looked at them.
“I find myself in need of a wash,” Richard addressed Master Clemens. “May I be excused, sir?”
The old man appeared flustered. “I—yes, of course, lad. There’s a stream yonder down the hill.”
Richard nodded, gave the five children a smile that made them blanch, and walked away.
CHAPTER 33
Richard had needed to plunge his shirt and trousers three times into the icy stream before the rabbit grease finally surrendered. The shirt now clung to him as he climbed the slope back to camp, water dripping off the cuffs.
His hair, at least, was clean. He raked it from his brow and shivered from the chill. The sun had set as he washed, and now, the camp had quietened. Cookfires had burned down to glowing nests, and the wagons were lit with lanterns. Atop the bear wagon, the lyre player was strumming a mournful song that raised the hairs on Richard’s arms.
A few performers lingered, everyone else having retired to bed. Four men and two women, including the tattooed lady—Talia—stood by the firepit, passing a wineskin among them.
“—right up to the inner courtyard, mind you?—”
“Don’t be daft, Pieter, no one gets to the inner courtyard. We’ll be in the outer yard.”
“That’s still more than most see in a lifetime. King Marius keeps that fortress shut tight. They’ll have us strip to our smalls at the gate, mark my words.”
“Worth it for the purse, though. A performance for the king. Not many troupes can claim that honour.”
Richard drifted towards the group with a casual swagger.
“Forgive my intrusion.” He offered a polite smile. “I had wondered where the circus would be staying before the performance? Surely not within the fortress?”
He and Kaelen would have to leave the troupe early, then. He’d certainly be recognised within the fortress itself, no matter how disguised.
The wineskin paused mid-pass. The taller of the two women—bearing multiple facial piercings—looked Richard up and down slowly. Another man, shorter, with a barrel chest and a beard plaited at the chin, smiled strangely. The whole group shuffled closer.
“Curious, are you?” the pierced woman said, her voice a low, lilting curl. “Curious is good. Curious is welcome.”
“Aye, very welcome.” The barrel-chested man chuckled. His hand grazed Richard’s back. “Come to the fire, friend, you’ll catch your death. Look at you. Soaked clean through.”
