‘Do you have a question, sir?’
‘No,’ Grigor said. He didn’t know how to make his exit appropriately. He didn’t want any trouble.
‘Is there nothing about me you want to know?’
‘There is not,’ Grigor said.
‘You can ask me anything you want.’
‘No, thank you,’ Grigor said.
‘Why not? You don’t find me interesting?’
Grigor looked around. Everything he could see—the great room, the finery, the food, the lord’s spectacular Christmas costume, none of it inspired him. It was not God’s fortune, but the bounty of a thief: Villiam hadn’t worked for his blessings. The villagers had. That was the great tragedy of Christmas as Grigor now saw it. Not one word of gratitude. Instead, there was this stupid game.
‘I pray your death is quick,’ he said quietly.
Villiam smiled. He took this as a compliment. ‘That’s very nice of you, but it’s not a question. Don’t be a loser—ask me anything. Winner gets a gold ducat.’
Grigor still had the gold Ina had given him when they had first met in her cabin in the fall. He’d been carrying it around in his pocket all this time for good luck.
‘How is it that you are so rich, and the rest of us so poor?’ Grigor asked.
‘It’s because of breeding, plain and simple,’ Villiam answered. ‘That was too easy. Ask me something personal. Something about me, your lord. Aren’t there things people wonder about? Now is your time to ask.’
‘Did you steal the water this summer? Did you cause the drought?’
Villiam smiled, then coughed. He looked around the room, from face to face. Jon and Vuna and even Marek seemed to be interested in his response. But he couldn’t possibly answer. Whatever he said, he would sabotage himself. He didn’t like to lose.
‘If you have nothing to ask,’ Villiam replied, ‘then I guess the game is over. Pity.’ He gulped the rest of his ale. ‘Ah well. I thought all the nice food and drink would make you merry. But I guess you’ll be going home now to your little village, where all the interesting people are. I suppose you’ll go and tell them all, “The lord is a great bore.” So be it. I’ve done my best.’
Grigor tugged at Jon’s sleeve, and the young man got up. Vuna followed, curtsying and straightening her cap. They all shuffled away, their footsteps like mice scurrying across a mantel.
Marek finally lifted his head. ‘You ought to be kissing his feet, not spitting in his soup,’ he said.
‘Nobody is spitting in his soup,’ Jon said, trembling.
Lispeth, who had been listening from the doorway with a new jug of ale, let out a titter. She had been spitting in Villiam’s soup for years.
‘We should be on our way,’ Vuna said, pushing Jon toward the door. ‘Night falls early this time of year.’
‘Please give my best to Ina,’ Grigor said to Lispeth on his way out.
Marek and Villiam watched them leave, the lord so stunned by their rudeness that he kept picking up his cup, forgetting to sip it, then putting it down again.
‘Can you believe that, Marek? The indecency? The ingratitude?’
‘Peasants,’ Marek said. ‘They think pride is a virtue. They haven’t learned yet that it is a vice.’
‘Wise words, my boy,’ said Villiam. But he was still upset. He was huffing and puffing, red in the face, confused. Not since his own father had anyone rejected him so bluntly. He looked like he might cry. Lispeth walked in and refilled Villiam’s cup of ale. Her hand on his shoulder seemed to subdue him.
‘You’re tired,’ she said.
‘I’m not tired, Lispeth.’
‘You look tired.’
‘I do?’
‘Come up to bed and I’ll bring you a special bottle of wine. The priest told me it is very good.’
‘Only if you join me in a cup. It’s Christmas after all, and I’m all alone now.’
‘What about me?’ Marek asked.
‘Get your own servant,’ was all Villiam said.
‘Go on upstairs,’ Lispeth said. ‘I’ll go fetch the wine.’
* * *
*
Once they had cleared the drawbridge and were far enough away from the house to breathe a bit easier, Jon and Vuna started arguing, each blaming the other for what had gone wrong at the manor.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Jon asked Vuna.
‘What was I going to say?’
‘Something nice. Girls are supposed to be nice.’