He alternates between wishing this hour would drag slowly, delaying dinner, and wishing the entire night would speed past. But since he has no magic—and doesn't know anyone who has such powers—he has to let time rule him. At least, he has one happy secret to clutch to his chest tonight: by law, his marriage to Milah is over, has been for three years, on the grounds of desertion. In fact, if at any time over the past ten years Milah spoke of any other man as "husband," her legal ties to Rumplestiltskin were immediately dissolved.
He's free, legally and morally, to pursue other affections. So, all the more determined to charm Colette and Maurice, he shaves, bathes, washes his hair, dresses carefully, brushes his teeth and evaluates himself in the full-length mirror. He doesn't trust mirrors—never has spent enough time around them to be comfortable with them—but this one approves of his appearance, apparently, so with a last brush stroke through his hair, he sits down on the bed to read and wait for Aalot's knock.
It comes too soon. At five minutes before 7, the footman leads him downstairs to the Great Hall, then through a side entrance. He's the first dinner guest to arrive, as protocol prescribes, since he's the lowest ranking. No food is on the table yet, not even a pitcher of water; his throat is dry and he wonders if it would be bad manners to ask Aalot to fetch him a glass of something. He's sure Aalot wouldn't hesitate to tell him if it were. Well, he's been thirsty before, and hungry, to a far greater extent than tonight, so he distracts himself by planning safe topics of conversation. Based on where he's been seated, he can assume that those who will be seated next to him—and those he will have to spend the evening making friends with—will be the lowest ranking nobles: barons. He digs into his memory—all children in Misthaven grow up learning the ranks and their proper form of address—but he isn't sure of the rules beyond that. Should he stand as each nobleman arrives (and wouldn't that be monotonous, considering, from the chair count, there will be nineteen other diners)? Should he wait to speak until he's spoken to? He knows no one is supposed to leave until the King and Queen do, but do the nobles leave in order of rank, since they're coming in that way?
And isn't this whole protocol business just a waste of time, especially in a time of war? Rumple feels pretty certain the King and the Princess would see it that way. Perhaps they take small comfort in the fact that the Council of Noblemen dinner takes place just once a month.
It just hits him: someday he may be expected to sit up front, at the dais. Someday the people now filtering in, rank by rank (and all of them men; he wonders what Belle thinks of that) may be expected to rise to their feet when he enters. It makes his stomach churn.
But he's getting ahead of himself, too far ahead. He grabs the water goblet closest to his plate, in hope of getting a drink of water—nothing's been poured yet, so he has to suffer his thirst. Too far ahead. When Belle gets to know him better, she'll decide this courtship idea needs to be scuttled.
As the next guests are brought in, he pretends to examine his napkin so that he won't have to figure out whether to stand up for them. Peyton the footman seats the barons to Rumple's right. Rumple's nose twitches under the assault of heavy cologne wafting from the newcomers. In turn, they look at him strangely and take guesses as to his purpose at the dinner, since of course he's obviously not one of them, but when Peyton returns with another noble in tow, the two barons switch their interest to that worthy. The barons don't stand for any of the incoming guests, so Rumple figures he's safe, but he keeps fiddling with his napkin until the last noble is seated so as not to be obliged to speak to anyone. At last—it feels like an hour has passed since Aalot, who's long since disappeared, brought him in—Ulrich appears at the foot of the dais, a footman blows a trumpet, and the butler booms across the Great Hall: "Announcing Her Highness, Princess Belle; Her Majesty, Queen Colette; and His Majesty, King Maurice." Dressed to their teeth in finery (though with his practiced eye for fabrics, Rumple can see that the garments' colors have faded and the elbows have worn thin. The gossipy barons beside Rumple whisper criticisms of the "peasant king" and his "farm girl bride," but the fact that the royals wear rather old clothes—though still, the cost of Maurice's stockings alone would feed a family of six for two months—impresses Rumple. He knows this is no act of disrespect for their guests but rather a show of support for the troops, a cost-cutting measure.
Chairs scrape as the noblemen rise, then scrape again as, following the royals' seating, the nobles reseat themselves. Sneaking glances at Belle, who's sneaking glances and smiles at him, Rumple can guess what she's thinking now: what a waste of time all this protocol business is, and what little it has to do with true courtesy. It will take years, but she will change things, his Belle will, bring efficiency and genuineness to her court. Rumple examines the faces around the table, picking out those who will likely support change; there's only a handful.
His Belle. He grunts softly to himself. Oh, he has it bad. He knows now why they call it "lovesick."
The meal is served. Conversation resumes, for all except Rumple; that's his preference as much as the barons'. Four courses, with plenty of wine in between; he pities the footmen and the cooks, for now that he knows several of them pretty well, he knows how hard they work. But that's okay, because Belle knows, too, and shows her appreciation, even now, in front of all these nose-to-the-sky types. Rumple tastes the care that went into each dish he's served; he plans to ask Helene for some of her recipes, not that he can afford the ingredients, but he enjoys experimenting with his cooking.
He wonders if the husband of a princess (would that make him a prince? A duke?) would be allowed to cook.
Oh, he's got it bad, all right.
When the last course—cheeses, nuts and sliced fruit—is brought in, Maurice nods once at Ulrich, who nods once at the trumpeter, who trumpets a few brief notes. The hall falls silent except for the clicks of boot heels as the footmen walk around the massive table, pouring more wine. Rumple feels flushed; he's going to have a headache tomorrow, if not a stomach ache from all this food. He hadn't meant to eat so much—watching Maurice from the corner of his eye, Rumple has learned that even the burly king practices restraint at these formal dinners, accepting only small samples of everything. Maurice scrubs his mouth with his napkin (the barons make some snide remarks about the King's rough manners), rises, welcomes the nobles, then launches into a report from the various battlefields, with lots of praise for the enchanted bows and the Spinner's Whistles. As he listens attentively, Rumple speculates on how well Belle's sweet voice will carry across the Great Hall, when she is one to make these reports; he will have to see if he can develop some sort of amplifier she can speak through.
Then there are state-of-the-provinces reports from various nobles-crops and livestock, weather, taxes collected, number of new conscripts sent to the army, all very mundane, Rumple thinks. When Belle is monarch, she'll want to hear the numbers pertaining to education—he smiles, imagining her asking each noble, "How many new books were added to your province's libraries this month?"
Rumple is lost in his daydream when the temperature of the room seems to change, the last of the reports having been given, and one of the big mucky-mucks stands, taking his time doing so (to draw attention to himself, no doubt). "Your Majesty, this being the time for discussion, I beg to raise a question."
Maurice dips his head. "Ask."
The nobleman wheels to face the south end of the table and points a finger dramatically. "This is the Council of Nobles, is it not? So why is this peasant dining among us?"
Someone chortles. "Instead of in the sty, where he belongs."
Rumple now recognizes the first speaker: Dalibor, Duke of Yarrin—and father of Sir Gaston. The second thing Rumple realizes is that the peasant the Duke is referring to is him.
He freezes, except for his eyes, which slide to Peyton. Will the footman evict him? Rumple doesn't dare swallow or even breathe. He wants to look to Belle for help, but he forces himself not to, lest he embarrass her.
"Indeed," sniffs one of the gossipy barons, who shakes out a handkerchief and presses it to his nose. Rumple recognizes a comment upon his hygiene. He wishes he could crawl under the table that his eyes are drilling a hole through.
"I am certain His Majesty had no knowledge of this pig groomer's presence," another duke comments, sounding bored. "It is the help that is to blame for this despicable intrusion." He throws the latter at Ulrich, who, for a slight moment, permits his mask of indifference to crack.
"I am surprised, Your Grace," a viscount challenges the second duke, "that this intrusion fails to ruffle you, and I am even more surprised, Your Majesty, that this creature, now discovered, is allowed to remain. Sensitive information pertaining to the war has been discussed here. How do we not know he is a spy?"
Heads nod, but Maurice bellows, "Enough!" And Dalibor snorts, "As always, you leap to panic, Ermo. The intruder, as His Majesty will no doubt tell us, is Rumplestiltskin of Ramsgate. A peasant, but no spy."
"He is more than that!" Her knuckles white, Belle grips the edge of the table as she rises; her mother pulls her back down and shushes her, but her father jumps into the fray, sparing Belle further embarrassment. "Gentlemen." His voice shudders with barely controlled anger. "It seems I have been remiss. I beg pardon for having failed to introduce him earlier. A request has come from some of you to meet the man whose invention is turning the course of the war, and so, when I learned he happened to be in Avonlea, I asked him to join us. It was my intention that, at the conclusion of our routine business, I would introduce him and give you the opportunity to thank him personally for his work—just as my generals have. Knowing how eager you all would be to join me in extending our gratitude, I thought to end this meeting on a happy note. You, Hob," Maurice stares down the bored duke, "in particular, I thought, would welcome this opportunity, considering your son came home from battle last week, unscathed, thanks to the Spinner's Whistle."
Hob is still not impressed. "In truth, sire, it's the archers to whom my thanks are owed, as my son tells it. Not this creature."
Rumple overhears one viscount whisper to another, "He doesn't even know which goblet is meant for him. He drank out of mine."
"I know Maurice likes to pretend he's a man of the people," the second viscount whispers back, "but this is ridiculous."
"If we are to suddenly become 'democratic,' this one in particular," Dalibor continues, jutting his chin toward Rumple, "should be the last to be invited to dine with us. You do know, don't you," he surveys his fellow noblemen, "who this Rumplestiltskin is?"
"Apart from the fact that he beat the hell out of your son with his cane," sniggers someone.
Dalibor ignores the remark. "You may style him as some sort of inventor, sire, but I'm sure if you knew the truth of him, you'd change your tone. During the previous Ogre War, he was conscripted, along with others from his village—"
"And he wormed his way out of it?" someone guesses. "He looks kind of wormy to me."
"Far worse, I dare say. He went. His Duke's tax gold was spent to train him and feed him and clothe him, and he took the bounty he was given, but on the night before his battalion was to be sent into battle, he found a way to escape—the lowest of ways. He injured himself so that he wouldn't have to fight, and he continued to live on his countrymen's hard-earned taxes, receiving medical care and housing and board until he could walk sufficiently to be released from service and brought home—where he continued, he and his whelp, to be a drain upon the kingdom. Lazy as well as cowardly, he took advantage of the good natures of his neighbors, taking alms. And now, here he is, irony upon irony, calling himself a savior of soldiers and dining at His Majesty's table."
"The nerve," a baron exclaims.
"I must concur with His Grace, sire," another noble pops up. "There is a time and a place for the uneducated and unwashed to be permitted at court, and this is hardly either."
"They had their time yesterday at the Petitions," someone adds.
"Your Majesty, we don't mean to make a fuss, but it is our responsibility to advise you in protecting the traditions and dignity of your court," Dalibor says smoothly. "It's only for that reason that I bought the matter up. Otherwise I would not have violated the spirit of goodwill and good humor at this assemblage. But now, may I recommend that the cow—that the Spinner be removed as quickly and quietly as possible so that peace may resume?" The tone with which he makes his request makes him sound much put upon.
Maurice's ears are red. He's still standing and his right hand is shaking, as if it's itching to form a fist or grab a sword. Rumple's entire face burns and his eyes sting; he would gladly have dined with the swineherd, rather than this crowd, if not for Belle's request. In his selfish wish to please her, he's embarrassed her and angered her father and made a fool of himself. His eyes dart to the nearest exit; his feet itch to follow, but that would only draw more attention.
"Gentlemen, you make me si—"
The Queen stills her husband with a soft hand to his arm—then, to the amazement of all, for few of these nobles have even heard her voice; she has been the example of womanly propriety, almost making the nobles forget her common background—she is the one to rise. Her face is serene as she scans the crowd, making direct eye contact with each of the twenty nobles. Her hands are folded at her waist. Her voice so gentle it cuts through the complaints, she addresses them: "Gentlemen, it is I who is at fault. I invited this man to dinner, and against his better judgment, he acquiesced to my wishes. I wanted him here, and still do, and here and now let it be known that anytime he comes to Avonlea, he is a guest of the crown. And gentlemen, I know that as protectors of the traditions and dignity of this court, you will honor me by treating him as a welcome guest."
She smiles as she smooths her skirts and sits down. With a small gesture she summons a footman to her side to refill her wine glass, and before she sips, she raises her glass to the silent room in a salute. "Gentlemen, I ask you to join me in expressing our welcome to an honored guest."
The nobles depart soon after, hours sooner than normal; they're still complaining and a few are casting aspersions. Some openly doubt the King; if he can't govern his women in something so simple as a choice of dinner guests, how can be govern the land? Their grumblings can be heard over the rumblings of their carriage wheels. Gossip will be spread across the kingdom by nightfall tomorrow—and it so unseemly for a queen and a princess to be at the center of gossip.
Through her maid, who conveys the message to the housekeeper, who conveys the message to Aalot, Belle asks Rumple to join her and her parents in the library. Rumple hesitates: after all that's gone down, to meet with them in private will only fan the gossip flames. He had hoped to sneak out at daybreak, leaving the books behind—he doesn't have a right to them any more. He'd send a brief, apologetic letter to Belle as he soon he arrived back home, and that would be the end of it. A few more polite letters exchanged, perhaps, but all talk of a second meeting, let alone courting, would be politely forgotten. It was such a ridiculous idea, anyway—everything against them, except themselves.
Yet how can he refuse a royal request? He rises from the couch in his chambers, gathers his cane as Aalot watches, and with Athena trotting along behind, threatening to trip him as she attempts to play with his tapping cane, he allows himself to be led back to the library. He is both relieved and discomfited by the background presence of Ulrich and Peyton, who wait to serve.
The King and Queen are seated in twin wingchairs, side by side, with an ornamental table between them holding a tea tray. The Queen is preparing a cup for her husband. They're both silent, but whether that's due to anger and embarrassment or simply a desire to not speak in front of the servants, Rumple can't guess. As he's led into the vast room, his cane taps echoing all the way up the four flights to the ceiling, Rumple examines their faces as closely as he dares, then he instinctively searches for Belle. The chair by the west windows, the one he previously imagined her reading in, is empty. Oh. They're going to tell him it's all off, then. She's probably off in her room, crying—no, not his Belle; she's probably out in the orchard, cursing as loudly as her sweet voice will carry. A flicker of a smile tugs at his lips as he imagines it. She will recover quickly from her heartbreak, less quickly from her humiliation, he supposes. But she will recover. She'll be happy again; it's in her nature. Her unfailing optimism, not her stubbornness, is her real strength, he thinks, and he's grateful she has it. He's happy that she'll be happy again.
The King looks up as Rumple enters. "One extra lump of sugar, dear," he instructs his wife.
"Now, Maurice—"
"I need it."
"I suppose." The Queen adds a third cube, then hands Maurice his cup.
Rumple is suddenly attacked from behind—or so he thinks; lace-covered arms slide around his waist. "Rumple," the sweet voice is so sad in his ear. He twists around; her face flashes from one emotion to another. She releases him hastily before her parents can catch her in the untoward gesture. "I'm so sorry, Rumple—"
"Yeah." The King sets his cup aside and runs a hand through his thinning hair. "I handled that badly." He grimaces. "All these social things—I've never been good at 'em. Anyway, I apologize, Rumplestilskin. I guess I should've, I don't know—what should I have done, Colette? These damn social things—"
"You are their ruler," Colette says quietly, stirring her own tea. "It's they who owe the apology to our guest. But I do suppose we could have waited for another occasion to subject Rumplestiltskin to those. . . gentlemen."
Stunned—his sovereign has taken the blame onto himself! His beloved still cares for him!—Rumple can't find his tongue.
"A little extra sugar for you too, Rumplestiltskin?" Colette gestures with the sugar tongs.
"I. . . " He nods. "Yes, ma'am, thank you."
He had expected hot accusations. He had expected cold criticism. He hadn't expected hugs and sugar.
"Sit down." Colette motions to the settee across from her and Maurice's chairs. Rumple obeys. He glances at Belle as she glances at the space beside him, but the settee is quite small and if she sits, their legs will brush. Belle knows just how far to test her tether, so she sits down on second settee, hands in her lap. Her mother gives her a small nod and continues to prepare Rumple's cup. When it's ready, she extends the cup on its saucer; he rises long enough to accept it, then sits back down.
"I—I'm sorry—I came here uninvited—" he stumbles, the cloud of steam from his cup rising to moisten his cheeks.
"No you didn't," Belle corrects. "I invited you. Anytime that was convenient for you, I said. And that invitation holds."
"We hope you're comfortable in your room." There's a question in Colette's voice that indicates she's really asking whether he'll stay tonight, after all that's happened.
There must be a negation in his expression, because Belle leans over to touch his knee slightly. "Rumple, don't go. Not so soon. It hasn't even been a day."
"But I've been an inconvenience. . . disruption. . . source of embarrassment. . . staying would only lead to more criticism and talk."
"Oh pooh," says Colette. "We're used to that. If people didn't talk about their monarchs, who would they talk about?"
"Show 'em they don't lead us by the nose," Maurice mutters. "You got to stay."
With a nod he accepts the invitation.
"Good," Belle sighs. "That's behind us." She settles back into her settee. "Let's talk about something pleasant. The war."
Colette raises a crooked eyebrow. "Since when has war been a pleasant topic of conversation, my girl?"
She shrugs. "It is now. We're winning in the far north. The ogres have retreated out of Farncombe. Now, I uncovered something else in my reading. Ogres have a fondness for holly berries, but ingesting them causes abdominal pain and—well, other unpleasantness. Not enough to cause permanent damage—"
"But enough to distract them while the archers move in," Rumple finishes.
Colette and Maurice exchange a look that's about more than ogres. "Holly grows thick in the Favorsham Forest," Maurice observes. "I'll send word to the farmers there; we can have a wagonload delivered to the eastern front in two or three days' time."
Belle grins and Rumple mirrors her. He still feels guilty and humiliated but here, in the library, he's safe with this family. A family that could be his.
But that wouldn't be fair to them, as tonight has proven. They deserve a husband for Belle who will bring respect and honor to the crown. In just a few hours, he realizes he's become too fond of them all to put them through any more discomfort, especially if it will make Maurice's rule less secure.
"Rumplestiltskin, I understand you enjoy books as much as Belle and I do," Colette says. "I wonder if you've read Tales of the Lady of the Lake?" And the conversation is launched: books, then travel, then children—Maurice seems blissfully unaware that Belle blushes furiously as he tells tales on her, comparing her childhood mishaps to Bae's, as Rumple relates them. They talk easily, pretending the dinner never happened, but Rumple thinks he sees behind the warmth and charm a realization that this—whatever this relationship between him and Belle might have become—will never work. If Maurice was, say, a merchant or a farmer, Rumple would be asking The Question now, with some hope of acceptance, but the four of them can't make decisions based upon their own welfare. They have a larger duty.
So Rumple allows himself to be charmed, and he discovers in his own storytelling skill an ability to charm too, but it's just for this one night. After all, anything that shakes the throne could endanger Bae. It's without guilt that in the dawn, as the servants stir, Rumple sneaks downstairs, borrows ink and paper, and writes a brief, jumbled letter for Belle. "You have immense responsibilities ahead, and a future of greatness. I must honor that. You will be a wonderful leader for us all, Belle. Your letters have meant so much to me, I hope you can forgive me and we can continue our friendship by letter. I must leave now, so that you can become the leader you were meant to be. Thank you, Belle, for your kindness. Rumplestiltskin."
He leaves the books behind. They're just too heavy to carry.