Imagine you're attending a tournament. Pennants are flying, the air smells like caramel apples and roasted chestnuts, everyone around you is talking at once. The color and the scent and the sound all blend together to make your blood run high and your breath come short. Soon...... soon......
A man climbs onto the stage in the center of the field you're all clustered around. He clears his throat and, slowly, the crowd goes silent. The food-sellers stop calling their wares. The mothers and maiden aunts cease their gossip. The merchants pause in their heated discussions of business. All eyes move centrally and focus on the crier.
"Ladies and gentleman, wizards, jesters, bandoliers, and- um- others," the crier begins. "The first participant of our grand tournament today is-"
There's an expectant silence as the crier pauses for effect. The food-sellers shift their trays from hand to hand. The mothers and maiden aunts lean forward, their lips parting slightly. The merchants feign disinterest. You wait.
"Pearl Clayton!" he cries out at last.
A gasp races through the crowd. Pearl Clayton? Impossible! She's not been seen nor heard from in over a month. You all thought she'd gone. Flown the coop. Given up tournaments forever. All eyes turn to the gate in amazement.
A girl sheepishly comes through the gate and walks toward the stage. Her red hair is flying loose, part of it covering her face. As well it should. She ought to be ashamed of herself, disappearing like that for so long.
She reaches the stage and climbs onto it as the crier leaps off. She turns, slowly, to face the crowd. She smiles awkwardly.
"Hello," she says. The crowd doesn't respond. Pearl shuffles her feet uncomfortably before going on. "I was challenged by Sir Hannah more than two months ago," she continues quietly. There are cries of outrage. Two months! Has she no honor?
Looking panicked, Pearl raises her hands, her eyes silently pleading for calm. "Please, please," she calls out. "I know I'm terribly delinquent, but I'm here now, and I'm fully ready to answer Hannah's challenge!"
The crowd reluctantly grumbles into silence. The food-sellers seat themselves among the rest. The mothers and maiden aunts glance at each other significantly. The merchants shake their heads disapprovingly. You think to yourself, Well, this'd better be worth it.
Pearl takes a deep breath. "Hannah's challenge was to compose a tale about a tea party gone awry, a bored princess, a deceiving knight, and a mysterious musician," she says.
There are murmurs of expectation throughout the crowd. It's a promising premise.
One more deep breath. And then, at last, Pearl begins her story.
The Mandolinist Saves the Tea Party
It was the sunniest of days, but it wasn't overly hot. The grass was looking delightfully thick and green, the sky was shockingly blue, and the hundreds of pastel roses surrounding the wicker tea table in the garden were all perky and fresh. Queen Gertrude sighed contentedly as she ran her eyes over the scene. The queen's tea parties were known for their utter perfectness, and this one was shaping up to be no exception.
"Come, Penelope, come and sit down, there's a dear," Gertrude chirped at her daughter. Then, as Penelope was approaching her place to the right of the head of the table (which was, of course, the queen's place) Gertrude reached out and caught her arm.
"Oh, Penelope," she said in ecstasy. "You look simply ravishing today. Oh, it's going to be just wonderful. We're all going to have so much fun!"
Penelope shrugged her mother's hand away and sat in her incredibly uncomfortable white wicker chair. Oh, yes, just wonderful. It wasn't like they did the same exact thing three or four times every blasted summer. Oh, wait- they did.
And it really was the same exact thing. Always a new pink dress covered in ruffles for the princess who hated pink and ruffles. Always the same finger sandwiches and miniature scones and other pathetic excuses for food for the princess who was constantly hungry. Always the same three hours of repetitive small talk and gossip on the same inane subjects that the princess who was bored by small talk and gossip was forced to participate in. Always the same guests sitting in the same places drinking the same over-sweetened mint tea.
Wonderful.
But this time it was worse. This time the queen had, through nefarious scheming or (more likely) complete accident, scheduled her pointless tea party on the same day as one of King Claude's state meetings, meetings much rarer than the ridiculous tea parties, when his various advisors gathered at the palace to discuss the country's politics and current events, solve any problems, debate new laws, eat real food, and more. Penelope had started attending the state meetings when she was twelve years old and hadn't missed a single one in the five years since. She loved the meetings. She loved taking part in the decision-making and contributing her ideas. She loved the way the councilors actively sought her opinion more often each meeting. She loved the way they addressed her as Nell, not Princess, not Penelope, not Princess Penelope, just Nell, the name her father had always used for her when her mother wasn't around.
She had begged and pleaded and reasoned and explained, but her mother had only looked at her blankly. "But dearest, I don't understand," she'd said, reaching for Penelope's hand and taking hold of it despite Penelope's frantic attempt to pull it out of the way. "Why would you want to go to one of those horribly dull meetings when you could be spending quality time with me and the other ladies of the court?" Then had come the pursed lips and the, "Oh, dear, Claude's put you up to this, hasn't he? Don't worry, love, I'll tell him you'd rather be with me."
"But I wouldn't rather, Mother," Penelope had finally said in desperation. "I want to go to the meeting with Father. Please. It'd only be one time."
But the queen had shaken her head and sighed. "Poor Claude. It's clear he wanted a son; but someday he's going to realize he can't turn you into one by sheer willpower." Then she'd gone and Penelope had been left to lower her head onto her desk, biting her lip to hold back her scream of frustration.
"Don't worry, Nellie," the king had whispered in her ear later. "I'll fill you in afterwards."
"It's not the same as being there," she'd said dejectedly. "But thanks."
So here she was, in an uncomfortable dress in an uncomfortable chair as plump, overdressed courtiers and giggly girls Penelope's age began trickling into the garden and eagerly reading the name cards, apparently looking for their places even though everyone always sat in the same place every time. Ugh.
Next came the compliments and greetings, the "Oh, you look so beautiful, milady!"s, and the "Why, that dress really suits you, Princess Penelope!"s and the "Looks like your mother's done it again, huh, dear?"s. And Penelope tried to sit up straight and tried to force a smile and said "thank you" until the two words no longer sounded like words.
Then everyone had to sit down, which, thanks to the ridiculous nature of both the chairs and the skirts, took an exceptionally long amount of time. And when everyone was finally seated, the slow process of serving the first course of tea and sandwiches was begun. Penelope would've sighed in exasperation, but she knew that if she did her mother would ask her what was wrong.
About halfway through this initial serving process, the first soft strains of a folk song drifted across the table, almost immediately drowned out by a reflexive smattering of applause from the guests. Penelope brightened a little. Not much. But a little.
Into the clearing came the Mandolinist, the court musician, strumming his mandolin at just the right volume: quiet enough that it wouldn't interfere with the meaningless conversations, but loud enough that it could be fully heard and appreciated. The Mandolinist was a professional.
Accordingly, he was incredibly full of himself. He had worked hard to become mysterious and intriguing, growing his dark hair out so that it was constantly slipping into his eyes, refusing to tell anyone at court his real name so that they all had to call him "Mandolinist", lurking in corridors and niches unseen so that he always knew just about everything going on at court...... the works. Penelope thought he was marvelous.
Penelope spent the next half hour attempting to tune out all the talking happening and focus on the increasingly complex and masterful mandolin music instead. More than once she succeeded for a few precious minutes, only to be jarred out of a blissful reverie by some woman's shockingly loud laughter or by her mother "helpfully" prodding her awake. "I suppose you must be tired, dearest," the queen said compassionately. "You were staring off into space. I hate to think of you missing out on all the fun!"
I am missing out on all the fun, Penelope thought, her mind drifting to her father's state meeting. Lord Demetrius had probably learned all sorts of new jokes. Earl Grayson was probably sharing anecdotes from his farm out in the country. And when they were done chatting and catching up and started the, Duke Orson would be asking for advice on how to deal with the unrest in his duchy, and Penelope had thought up such a brilliant solution, which Earl Grayson would undoubtedly have disagreed with, which would've led to a truly magnificent debate......
Penelope sighed and glanced up at the Mandolinist. At the same moment, he turned to look at her. He nodded and smiled sympathetically, almost like he knew what she was thinking. And, come to think of it, what with all his eavesdropping he very well might.
The tea party continued perfectly; tea, gossip, tiny stacks of papery bread and cucumbers that were misguidedly presumptuous enough to call themselves sandwiches...... Everything as planned.
And then...
...it happened
Queen Gertrude's famous "flush of pleasure", a not-exactly-delicate reddening of her cheeks which made an appearance about the midway point of every tea party, was just starting to spread across her cheeks when Sir Damien arrived.
Sir Damien had only recently been knighted. He was a loud, impulsive, talkative sort of fellow, with dark hair, a roguish smile, and the most glorious beard anyone had ever seen. He was admired and sighed after by almost every female at court between the ages of sixteen and sixty. He loved to regale his admirers with stories of hunting and participating in tournaments of every kind on his father's grand estate (although nobody quite seemed to know who his father was or where this grand estate was located, as Sir Damien had never actually shared those details).
Queen Gertrude thought he was charming. Penelope disagreed.
"Hello, ladies!" Sir Damien called, just as he always did.
Interestingly, he didn't get the same reaction he always did.
Queen Gertrude's tea parties had a system. A pattern. A formula. They were predictable and dependable. That was what Penelope loathed about them, and what Queen Gertrude and all the others loved about them. Perfection. Precision. Rules, even, albeit unspoken rules.
One such rule concerned the fact that Queen Gertrude's tea parties were decidedly man-free (with the natural exception of the Mandolinist, who was inarguably necessary because there had to be music; plus, he was purposefully silent and conspicuously inconspicuous enough that if the tea partiers found his presence discomfiting they could simply ignore him). And so the giggles, blushes, and gasps that followed Sir Damien's entrance were far more reserved and confused than usual. All the women glanced at one another nervously, silently asking, Now what do we do?
Then it got worse.
"Look at you, sitting around here when you're surrounded by such beautiful gardens!" the incredibly oblivious Sir Damien boomed. His obliviousness had become a bit of a running joke among the few girls like Penelope who thought he was a complete idiot, and the many previously attached or homely girls who knew they didn't have a chance with him and had thus bitterly decided to turn their noses up at him. Really, if one was looking for it, the fact that he seemed completely unable to pick up on social cues became as plain as his glorious beard. It was evident now, as he'd clearly stumbled into the queen's famous tea party having no idea what it was and now appeared to have impressively failed to notice the discomfort of the guests.
Where did he even come from? Penelope wondered. She had zoned out again, jerked out of her thoughtfulness by Sir Damien's arrival, so she couldn't tell what direction he'd come bumbling in from.
"Let's liven this party up!" Sir Damien suggested. "Why don't we all take a turn about the gardens? Your majesty?" he asked, turning to Queen Gertrude.
The flush of pleasure had vanished completely, replaced by an ashen look of shock, both at Sir Damien's presence and his unpalatable notion. They couldn't take a turn about the gardens! For the love of all things good, this was a tea party, not a walking party!
But then again, how could the queen reject the offered arm of a knight? And not just any knight: Sir Damien!
"Why- why yes. A- a lovely idea," the queen said uncertainly, taking Sir Damien's arm.
A few minutes later, the entire tea party had abandoned their plates and were wandering about the gardens, vacant-eyed and inwardly panicking with no idea what they were supposed to be doing. Penelope was standing in front of a yellow rosebush, plagued by inner turmoil.
On the one hand, it was wonderful to be able to move and to finally encounter some variety in these ridiculous parties. On the other, Penelope could only imagine how miserable her mother must be. The poor woman. If this nightmarish unscheduled walking was allowed to continue much longer, one of the queen's tea parties would be absolutely ruined for the first time ever.
"I don't get why they all like that Sir Damien so much," said a voice near Penelope's shoulder. She turned to look at the Mandolinist.
It wasn't the first time she'd ever spoken to him. He had an interesting habit of unexpectedly joining the conversations he'd been listening in on, or striking ones up with people he knew from his spying who had scarcely even seen him before. Queen Gertrude hated it and had often emptily threatened to have him dismissed for it, but King Claude, Penelope, and many others had grown accustomed to it. Some, Penelope included, had even come to rather like it.
Now, Penelope shrugged. "The charisma, maybe. Or the stories he tells. It might just be the beard."
"I bet I could grow a beard," the Mandolinist said a little defensively.
"I'm sure you could," Penelope agreed. "But I don't think it'd look quite right. Maybe wait a few years."
The Mandolinist nodded thoughtfully. A minute passed. Penelope and the Mandolinist pretended to look at the yellow rosebush. Penelope was actually thinking about how miserable her mother must be and how pretending to look at a rosebush, while certainly preferable to having a tea party, got boring very quickly. The Mandolinist was actually looking at Penelope.
"So, Princess," he said at last. "Tell me: do you want to help your mother?"
Penelope shrugged again. "Not really. But I'm beginning to feel like I should. Got any ideas?"
"If you exposed him as a liar, I'll bet none of them would feel guilty going back to their seats."
"Is he a liar?"
The Mandolinist looked shocked. "Yes, of course he's a liar! He wasn't raised on some grand estate. He's from a small country farm."
"I can't prove that, though."
"He's never actually jousted before."
"Abominable, but again, I doubt they'll believe it."
"And he's only gone hunting once."
Penelope shook her head sadly.
"And that beard is completely fake."
Ah, now, see, there was some information Penelope could make good use of.
It didn't take long to find the queen and Sir Damien, as Sir Damien was relating one of his so-called childhood memories to the queen in his booming voice. Penelope came up close to them.
"Hello, Mother," Penelope said.
"Oh, hello, Penelope," the queen replied dully, just as Penelope was tripping over a rock that didn't exist. Shrieking in exaggerated panic, Penelope reached out desperately and grabbed hold of the first object her hand touched. This object was, by design, Sir Damien's beard.
It came off in her hand.
Queen Gertrude gasped. Penelope slapped her hand across her mouth in an attempt to stop herself from giggling. The attempt failed, but none of the partygoers hurriedly gathering around noticed. Everybody was too busy fighting to get closer for a better look at Sir Damien's beardless face. He looked stunned. He also looked like a twelve-year-old.
"Oh, Sir Damien, you've got such a baby's face!" one of the courtiers Penelope's age cried out before her mother could stop her.
Recovering himself, Sir Damien made a desperate lunge for his beard, but Penelope sidestepped him. It was too late, anyway.
"Well," Queen Gertrude said regally, "I must say, Sir Damien, I am shocked by this turn of events. I really don't know what to make of it all. If you'll excuse me, I believe I've had enough of walking in the garden. I'll think I'll return to my party." All the others hurried to follow her, relieved that the departure from tradition had come to a speedy end.
The flush of pleasure returned full-force as Gertrude and her guests reseated themselves. Not only was the tea party being resumed, those in attendance now had a deliciously juicy new scandal to discuss for the duration. The tea party had been saved, and then some.
Penelope, still holding Sir Damien's beard and desperately attempting to keep back her laughter, sat down with them. She couldn't wait to tell her father about this.
As the Mandolinist returned to his place and recommenced his strumming, he glanced over at Penelope. She smiled and nodded. He winked, then turned his attention to his mandolin.
Still smiling, Penelope slumped down in her chair. Oh, well. Back to the monotony.
If only tea parties could always be this much fun.
THE END.
