A/N: Hurray! An update! And it's actually the funnest chapter in this yet (because Corin+Dinadin=awesomesauce). I heartily apologize for the long wait for this (and would be little surprised if no one reviewed). Hopefully there is only one chapter left, and it should be posted soon, so I can wrap this one up. :)
Enjoy.
Chapter 4: Corin and Dinadin
It was astonishing, the cook often remarked to her nephew, Geoffrey, how everyone seemed to know when she was baking Apple Tarts.
Each of the kings and queens had some (Lucy and Edmund had come by earlier, explaining that they were going picnicking), Susan had sent Renna the Badger to fetch some for tea with the Galmian ambassador (though she'd probably only eaten half of one, dear distracted thing), and a few of the High King's guards had come around for some, although Cook was almost certain they hadn't been fetching them for the king.
They were, she had to admit, worth coming around for. The apples had been picked yesterday, and were the sweet, juicy ones that grew on the trees just inside the courtyard's gates. Those were the old apple trees, which had somehow survived the Hundred Year Winter. Some said they were all that remained of an even Older Tree, which the witch had cut down and burned. But that was probably just a legend. The rest of the tart was Cook's pride and joy—a recipe tested and tasted by dozens of children and friends through the years until at last she discovered the perfect blend of honey, flour, and cinnamon. The flaky crusts would melt in your mouth; the apples were cooked to a wonderful softness and then coated with cinnamon and lemon-juice. No wonder she was swatting hands right and left and growling because another pan of the fresh tarts had just gone missing.
Suddenly, Cook straightened from the dough she had been kneading and turned toward the doorway, for a new sound had caught her ear. A string of melodious notes, like a Siren's call, jerked her gaze around as effectively as if it had been a fishing line, and she a caught fish.
A nice looking young man was standing in the doorway. He was of medium height, with light brown hair and a wry smile. His hands strummed his instrument ("A lute?" wondered Cook), and when he saw that she (and everyone else in the kitchen) was looking at him, he grinned and bowed smoothly.
"Good day, fair Queen of the Kitchen and to you, her courtiers. The aroma of your handiwork has frozen my feet in their places. Would you be willing to exchange a boon to a hungry minstrel in exchange for the only thing he has to offer?"
"Wha's that?" the scullion chirruped, cheeky as ever. "Yer tongue?"
Everyone paused, worried that the stranger was offended. However, before a second's time had passed, the man let out a roar of laughter, grinning widely at the boy. Everyone else began tittering, too, and someone (probably Ellie, one of the girls who turned the roast) whacked the cheeky scullion over the head with her ladle. She had the makings of a fine cook, Cook thought appraisingly.
"Give us a song," Cook said. "Seems to me like that's what you're meaning to offer us."
"Beautiful and clever," the man said, bowing to her again. "Very well, a song it is. Ballad or ditty?"
"Ballad," said Cook, who was romantically inclined, but everyone else called for ditty, so the man shrugged and began to play. It was a delightful, toe-tapping sort of song, and several girls were so distracted that the smell of things becoming slightly scorched made them gasp and whirl around to see to their dishes. The song the minstrel sang was about a shy man who wanted to buy a mare from his neighbor, but who somehow ended up marrying the neighbor's daughter Mary due to a mischievous friend who offered to be a go-between. Cook was so enamored by the entertainment that she almost didn't see the slight shadow of movement from behind her—almost, but not quite. She whirled around (just as the minstrel was drawing to a close) and smacked the hand of the young boy who was reaching for one of her fresh apple tarts.
"Naught for thee!" she bellowed, so sharply that the minstrel stopped his song altogether. "I'll teach thee to steal from my kitchen, behind my back!"
She reached for her ladle (for she didn't mind so long as people asked before they took, and Cook was a great believer in boys and girls being taught early on in life that stealing and such was wrong), but the minstrel stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder before she could smack the lad with it.
"Madam, I ask my boon of thee. The boy and I had a wager—he thought that my song would distract you from seeing him, and I thought that it would not. It was wrong of us to trick you so, but I prithee, do not harm him too much."
The sparkle had left the man's eyes, and he was all earnest contrition. The cook paused, bewildered by this sudden admission, and then threw up her hands in surrender.
"Very well, sir. You can 'ave 'im. I don't know how the prince talked you into such a scrape, but I've no doubt it was just to have a taste of his favorite food. Twill spoil your appetite, highness," this to the boy, who was shaking his very blond hair out of his eyes and watching the minstrel and Cook with wide, relieved blue eyes. "And if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, ask before you take!"
The boy mumbled an apology and darted toward the door. The minstrel looked down at the apple tarts and glanced at Cook, who suddenly smiled widely at him. "Go ahead, lad. You've more than earned it. What's your name?"
"Dinadin," the man replied, bowing again. "I'm from a place called Camelot, and I assure you, madam, that the cook there is not half so forgiving nor beautiful as you."
Cook blushed and smiled and told him to go on, so the minstrel took two apple tarts and bowed before he left.
.
When Dinadin went through the door into the alcove of a courtyard, he saw a flash of ash-blond hair out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and, hiding a grin, saw that it was the boy from inside.
"Oh, hello," he said, nodding to the lad. "Take to heart what she tells you and perhaps you won't get smacked again."
Hesitating as he considered what he was going to do (he was, after all, holding two apple tarts), Dinadin glanced at the boy and thought, Well. He's at the age where you're hungry all the time. Just one won't spoil his appetite.
The boy certainly didn't protest when the knight-minstrel handed him one of the warm tarts. However, he did give Dinadin a curious glance as the minstrel settled onto a stone bench that ran along the wall of the alcove, slinging his instrument into his lap and lifting his tart to his lips. Dinadin noticed the stare and gave the boy another look, this one more careful than the first. How old was he? Six? Seven? What had the cook called him? Highness?
"Well?" Dinadin said at last, growing a little uncomfortable beneath that fascinated blue gaze. "Cat got your tongue?"
The boy wrinkled his nose, and then pointed at the instrument. "What's that?"
"Tis a lute."
"Not like the Narnian lutes, it isn't."
"That's because it's an Albion lute."
There was a moment of silence. Then the boy asked, "You lied to Cook about us having a wager."
Raising an eyebrow, Dinadin nodded. "Unless I am very wrong, most hungry young men such as yourself would be grateful after being saved from a beating just for trying to fill their growling stomachs."
The boy just gazed at him thoughtfully, until Dinadin grew uncomfortable again and said, "Come. Sit and eat your tart."
He could hear the boy's stomach growl as he moved to sit next to the minstrel, but he looked a little guiltily at the pastry. "I shouldn't."
"If you don't," Dinadin remarked, licking his fingers, "than I shall."
After hesitating for a split-second, the boy broke into a large grin and obediently devoured the apple tart. As he did, he talked (the silent shyness of a few seconds ago had apparently been temporary).
"Where is Albion? Do you have a king? Where did you learn that song and why did you call Cook a queen and why did you give me one of your apple tarts?"
"Far away from here, yes, another minstrel, to butter her up, and because I used to be a hungry boy too." Dinadin hid a grin at the surprised look on the boy's face. Perhaps he was not used to having all his questions answered. "And before you ask, my name is Dinadin. What is your name? Why did the cook call you 'highness'? Are you from here? Do you have a king?"
A little sheepishly, the boy ducked his head. "I'm sorry. Edmund says I ask too many questions."
Dinadin plucked one of his strings to tune it and said, "My master said the same thing about me. Are you going to answer?"
"I was working it all out," said the boy. "Corin, because I'm a prince, no but I am from Archenland which is a few days journey south, and my father is the king of there but Narnia has two kings and we're neighbors and Edmund said he would be my older brother."
Laughing in spite of himself (for he knew young ones did not like being made fun of) Dinadin strummed a chord slowly. "What? You don't have an older brother of your own?"
Corin looked down so that his hair fell in his eyes. "No. I used to pretend I did, because I've always wanted one so badly, someone to play tricks with (or on), but I haven't got one. Except for Edmund," he added. "He's one of the kings, and he always lets me have apple tarts before supper."
"Well," said Dinadin, slouching a bit and playing a minor chord. "You aren't missing much. I haven't had much luck with older brothers."
"Have you got one?"
"Mm. But he's an idiot, and a famous one—but most people think he's brave instead of stupid. He fell in love with our uncle's…er, he made a lot of bad choices. And he doesn't even know who I am half the time."
Corin looked skeptical, but after Dinadin regaled him of the story of the time that Tristram had taken a vow of silence (which he then proceeded to brag about to everyone from Camelot to Orkney), and of the way he had sneaked into his enemy's castle under the highly imaginative and inconspicuous name "Tramtris". The story got Corin to laugh, at least, but he still looked unconvinced.
"Edmund's not like that—nor is Peter (that's Edmund's brother). Perhaps you've just had bad luck. I know," he added thoughtfully, "that if I had a real brother, I shouldn't mind even if he was an idiot."
"You'd be surprised," muttered Dinadin, but then he shrugged off his foul thoughts and began plucking a lively song. After about a minute of that, Corin jumped up and tugged at Dinadin's sleeve.
"Come on! I've got something to show you." At Dinadin's raised eyebrow, the boy explained, "There's a wizard visiting the High King (that's Peter, Edmund's brother) and no one can get into the throne room when it's locked. But I know a way to see what's going on."
"Well?" said Corin, wiping his mouth with his sleeve (There goes a perfectly good tunic, stained with apple tart). "Are you game?"
Even though the knight side of him (the darned responsible side) insisted that spying on the affairs of kings and wizards was likely not the wisest way of spending one's afternoon (you know what they say about meddling in the affairs of wizards…), Dinadin's minstrel side was much stronger. Thus it was that Dinadin, who still had a good deal of 'child' left in him, grinned a smile that matched that of the mischievous blond boy and nodded a 'yes', quite ready for whatever adventure awaited them in the throne room of the High King.
He was not, however, ready for the scene that awaited them. Corin led him through a back-stair and into a sort of upper gallery (good place for an assassin to hide, Dinadin thought worriedly) and as they made their way to a place where they could look down into the throne room, the sound of Merlin's scratchy voice could be heard, raised and irritated and lecturing, like as not. Then a younger voice interrupted him, and then Merlin started shouting. Dinadin wasn't paying attention, minding more the chairs and tables he and Corin were wading through to get to whatever hole in the wall they were to see through (apparently the place was being used to store all the unwanted furniture in the castle and the neighboring provinces, too).
Dinadin did, however, notice when there was the sound of a small explosion in the room below, and the voice of the younger person suddenly just stopped, and all that was left was Merlin's lecturing.
As well as a high, squeaky sound that hadn't been there before. They reached the hole through which Corin said they could look, and when he looked through into the beautiful but mostly simplistically decorated throne room, Dinadin focused on the pair beneath and after a moment let out a groan and leaned back against the wall, allowing Corin to look through.
"Oh, Merlin," Dinadin muttered. "What have you done?"
"I don't see the king," Corin said, squinting into the room. "There's only that old fellow. Where's Peter got to?"
"He's there," said Dinadin, rubbing his forehead and wondering how on earth he was going to explain all this to the other king and queens without ending up with Merlin's head on a platter (because like it or not, Arthur still needed him). "Sitting on the desk."
"There's no one there."
"Yes there is. Yellow. Squeaking. A good deal smaller than he usually is, I think."
"But…" Corin, Dinadin thought, was finally at a loss for what to say. "He's…he's a…"
"Yes," said Dinadin, hitting his head repeatedly on the wall behind him. "I should have expected this, after hearing Arthur's stories about his childhood. Merlin's turned him into a canary."
To Be Continued...
