Under normal circumstances, the ladies of the court would have trailed after them—twirling their parasols and swishing their skirts, gossiping and giggling, clapping their white-gloved hands and vying for the privilege of awarding trinkets to winners. With the young king barely cold in his tomb, however, the only thing any of them seemed to be vying for these days was who could put on the finest show of grief for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. This made the butts an excellent place for important men to speak without fear of being bothered by women or being overheard by the rats in the castle walls. That is why Lord Bartok did not bother to lower his voice when he said, “Mordecai has kidnapped my son.” The other great lords gaped at him, thunderstruck. Indeed, tall, skinny Lord Tweedsmuir was so startled that he loosed the arrow in his drawn bow without bothering to take aim. The arrow came within a hair’s breadth of piercing the heart of a gardener trimming the leafy tail of a topiary mermaid in a distant garden.
