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The Loneliest Seat

H eather would rather dine with swine and feast on slop than ingest the savory meal set before her.

From her lonely, shadowed corner seat, she tore her gaze from the potentially poisoned plate.

Her eyes swept the hall, landing on Her Majesty and the ladies-in-waiting as they frolicked to and fro with the melody of the chamber quartet.

The young queen- third wife of the king- was the portraiture of elegance with lithe dance movements.

Her blonde tresses glimmered in the light as if the jeweled hair braids atop her head were gilded gold, by a painter's hand- vastly different from Heather's dark locks.

Her Majesty's Aubergine dyed dress, the color of royalty, was a stark contrast from the remainder of the assembly, draped in drab earth tones.

The crackling great hearth illuminated the ladies' many baubles, biliments, and embellished brocade as candlelight shifted with the dancers' movement upon the lime rock walls, spreading long silhouettes.

Their ever-expanding headdresses cast beastly reliefs onto the stone, filling Heather with an aura of foreboding.

As if the shadows were revealing the women's true nature.

The Lords jested and laughed uproariously, jackals in fine attire, already inebriated from the strong honey mead spilling forth from their cups.

None but Heather feared for their life. The luxury and merriment of the great hall was a mockery.

Even the clamorous sounds of the gathered court failed to silence her imposing thoughts. She couldn't help but wonder- would this plate of duck, vegetables, and cheese be her last meal?

Perspiration lined her forehead. She pressed a fist to her gut where it pinched. She fought the urge not to glare up at the manservant, Uster, who was to blame for the longest month of her brief life. Each meal coated her stomach with lead.

Fearful of an uprising, Uster, found the solution to His Majesty's troubles.

By suggesting he appoint a food tester. Heather, unfortunately no stranger to Uster's scrutiny, was assigned the dreaded role.

Every morsel intended for the king had to pass Heather's lips first. After all, claimed Uster, who would miss a kinless servant girl if the worst were to happen?

Her very last name, Thistleby- a common weed, marked her a thorn among roses of the gentry. Born the daughter of the castle under cook, Heather was orphaned at a tender twelve summers. She'd been earning her keep, as they say, serving as a scullion, the eight dreadful years since.

She often considered the irony she had to eat to live… and what she ate might mean her death.

"The king's dinner won't grow any less lethal, no matter how long you glare at it," said Uster with a sniff.

The canary- colored plume on his cap pulled towards his nose with each intake of breath.

"It will, however, turn cold… and I doubt His Majesty would prefer his sup prepared that way," he added as he regarded her with disdain.

Heather ducked her head, a perfect representation of submission. "Yes, Seneschal." Her station at court lay at the bottom of the hop barrel, and the manservant delighted in reminding her of her status. All the while demanding she show proper reverence for her betters.

She couldn't recall the exact moment when his lingering lascivious glances evolved to hatred.

Mayhap around the time the feather on his obnoxious hat was mysteriously shorn.

He resembled a large yellow bird she once spotted during a rare visit to the village market.

He must have replaced the damaged one, leaving her to wonder precisely how many of the odious things he had tucked away.

Secretly, Heather wondered if he was compensating for something. The feathered cap added at least five inches to his stature.

With a hand over her mouth, she tried her best to stifle the chortle threatening to escape, at who she dubbed Uster the Ulcer.

His fashionable clothing often had him unknowingly resembling a court jester.

Better to laugh than cry. And she desperately needed some cheer.

He looked a fool, but he was a bully of the worst sort.

One who haunted her sleeping hours. He remained forever a pain in her side.

Particularly at mealtime. Their forced interaction, thrice a day, rendered her nerves threadbare.

Why the cruel man chose her as a taste-tester, she never understood. She wasn't one to draw unnecessary attention to herself. She strove to elude his presence to the best of her ability, taking great care to avoid being caught unawares in the dimly lit back halls of the keep.

Mayhap he anticipated Heather choking on poison and would delight in denying her an antidote. Heather learned long ago, some men didn't need a genuine reason to make others feel small.

Seeking an escape from her dark thoughts, Heather hummed along with the quartet's melody, the music nearly indistinguishable over the pouring pain.

Her own booted feet moved in cadence with the beat under the rickety taster table, itching to partake in anything other than the king's share before her.

She yearned to be part of the merriment, but as a commoner, Heather was forbidden many things, including fraternizing with the nobility. She certainly could not meet them on the dance floor. Commoners were prohibited even speaking to those of higher rank without first being spoken to.

With a deep breath, she tidied the pink wish ribbon she now used to tie back her unruly, thick chestnut hair. Finding solace in its familiar, cool, silky texture. She searched the table scape for cause to delay the bleak task awaiting her.

Upon noticing the absent royal cup, Heather remarked, "Good Sir, I will gladly begin my testing, but…

where is His Majesty's mead?" She grimaced to herself before she finished the question, realizing her error too late.

It was not her intention to place blame on her dearest friend, Jessamine, whose duty entailed serving the king and, by default, Heather- the tester.

She merely wanted to postpone ingesting anything on the royal's plate.

Sometimes, her mouth simply outpaced her thoughts.

That is, on the rare occasion she found it in herself to voice her opinions.

She was more often than not the quiet person in the room.

She scrubbed these folk's filthy dishes, she was not welcome among their ranks.

No one could care less whether she stated her notions.

The fact of the matter was- not a soul was listening.

Uster held no such reservations and was quick to dole out blame.

"Where is that blunder of a girl, Jessamine?

" grumbled Ulcer, as he slammed his gilt ringed fist upon Heather's shrouded, flimsy table.

The shuddering wobble made it difficult to spear a piece of fowl with her fork.

The succulent looking spiced meat should have been a delight.

The royal chef, Mae- their 'kitchen mother,' could prepare a repast fit for a king with mere scraps.

Heather took solace in knowing the matron fiercely guarded what dishes were on her hearth.

For the more diligent the chef, the less likely the king's meal would be tampered with, and the longer Heather's life as a result.

Heather caressed her hair ribbon again, apprehensive, and vowed to thank the matron later this evening when she collected her own dinner plate.

If she survived testing His Majesty's supper this eve.

As the morsel of tender duck dissolved in her mouth, she daydreamed of using a bite of it to tempt the royal mouser, Fee, in her favor.

Flavorful fowl had to be better than mouse.

The ginger tabby hissed and swiped at Heather at every opportunity but would be won over any day now- if the servants received the same meal as the nobles.

Odds were her servant portion did not include the delicacy.

Heather speared a couple of long green beans, imbibing them quickly, without a second thought.

There was no harm done waiting for the tardy mead.

Uster himself had instructed Heather to pace herself between bites.

Allowing the manservant time to observe any physical changes in the taste- tester, so that he would know which food portion was culpable.

Jessamine rushed out from the cookery, goblet in hand, "My apologies, Seneschal Ulc-errr- Uster, is there anything else amiss?" Her long warm honey braid swung wildly, nearly tapping Uster upon his back from her sudden halt.

Jessa and Heather wore matching kitchen court servant garb. Jessa's ankle length blue kirtle and apron, a twin to her own.

Heather peered up at her sweet friend, her gray eyes wide in alarm.

She choked on the green bean mid chew, the sound loud and alarming at Jessa's near blunder of calling Uster by their secret name.

Jessa would have been marched out to the main courtyard, divested of her clothes, and flogged publicly if Uster had heard.

Heather's cough, fortunately, distracted the Ulcer of a man from the moniker.

Jessa set the goblet down, and patted Heather on the back as she wheezed and hacked.

Ulcer froze in place, eyes narrowed on Heather, preoccupied with whether the girl was suffering from the ill effects of poison.

Jessa's honeyed gaze met Heather's and grimaced, realizing the near mishap.

At last, Heather's airway was clear, and she breathed in heavily with relief for herself and Jessa, whose backside wouldn't meet a barbaric punishment today.

"See, all is well," reassured Jessa as she removed her palm from Heather's back.

Sniffle, sniff, the tall feather flapped and pulled toward Uster's nose.