xymnovel Chapter 6 The Banquet
Chapter 6 The Banquet
Chinon Castle is hosting a grand banquet today, and it is brightly lit even in the middle of the night.
Charles, seated at the head of the table, wore a crown, while Latre beside him raised a wine glass and spoke.
"This banquet is dedicated to Marshal Attil and his soldiers who fought bravely on the battlefield! It was their great victory that prevented the English from crossing the Loire. Let us all wish Marshal Attil good health and continued success!"
As soon as he finished speaking, he took a sip. Everyone else followed suit and raised their glasses.
After Latre sat down, he nodded to Renault beside him. Renault clapped his hands, and the band began to play a soft pastoral tune on the veranda, while dishes began to be served one after another.
Deer bone broth so thick it could cling to a spoon, finely mashed peas, and a whole roasted river trout stuffed with herbs and lemon slices were served one after another on silver platters.
The minor nobles near the entrance of Bourbon were amazed, but Albrey, standing next to Latre, seemed somewhat disinterested.
Seeing his somewhat sullen expression, Latre asked, "What's wrong? Is it not as grand as the banquets in the South? Or is the food not to your liking?"
Albrecht shook his head, replying unhappily, "The ingredients are all quite ordinary, but the cook's skills are excellent. But why should I stay here? Arthur didn't even attend his victory celebration! Count Dinoire is currently gathering reinforcements because the British are advancing south; I should go and help him defend Montagne!"
Latre chuckled, took a sip of his drink, and swirled the glass as he asked, "How do you know this isn't another battlefield? The Duke of Bourbon sent you to be my adjutant so that you wouldn't dwell on your father's blood feud and would learn some basic principles, right?"
Albre ignored him and simply tore the fish into pieces with his fork.
At Reno's direction, the band changed the tune, and large barrels of wine and platters of meat were brought out by the waiters. Crimson vintages were served to the waiting knights and officers, while crisp white wines were offered to the ladies and elders. Goose breast was sliced paper-thin and drizzled with black pepper sauce. Lamb was roasted until the skin was crisp. Veal, stewed with rosemary and bay leaves, fell apart at the touch. The fattiest part of the wild boar was served with a tangy berry sauce to cut through the richness.
The knights slammed their fists on the table and began to sing in unison, which cheered Albrecht up a bit. He then tapped his wine glass with his fork to accompany them.
After a brief pause, the band stopped, and four burly male servants, led by Reno, carried out a huge silver platter. On the platter was the head of a stag—preserved as a taxidermied specimen with eyes replaced by beads—but behind the stag's head, on a separate plate, were not roasted venison but several roasted ducks.
The plate was carefully placed in the center of the main table. Reno stepped forward, holding a small silver pitcher. Under the watchful eyes of all the guests, he tilted the spout and poured a pitcher of sauce over the glistening duck skin.
Charlie stood up, and everyone bowed to him.
“This stag,” Charlie began, “was hunted by Marshal Attil himself in the forest on the north bank of the Loire River. On that day, the stag seemed to be called by God and willingly offered itself as a witness.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the long table.
"But yesterday, a servant reminded me: though the stag symbolizes good fortune and royal power, it is ultimately a common gift in the French forests." Charles raised his glass. "I recalled that when I was young, I had the privilege of being taught by an Eastern sage. He claimed to come from the farthest empire of the land of the rising sun and taught me a secret recipe."
He looked at the plate of roast duck drizzled with sauce.
"The Marshal's victory is a sign of God's blessing upon France. I believe that adding to this magnificent scene with the methods given by the saint is the will of Heaven."
After he finished speaking, the hall fell silent. Then, Lavalet stood up and raised his glass.
"The stag's self-sacrifice is already a manifestation of God," Lavalle's voice echoed in the hall. "Now, the legacy of an Eastern sage has appeared in the world, at a banquet for the Crown Prince. This is no coincidence; it is clear proof—"
He turned to the crowd, raising his glass high:
"This proves that His Highness Charles is the chosen one of God, the true Lord who will lead France to its restoration! Marshal Attil, blessed with this divine mandate, will surely enjoy great military fortune! The greedy English will surely be punished by God!"
"God bless France!" someone shouted.
"God bless the Crown Prince!"
"May God bless the Marshal!"
The toasts rose sparsely, then gradually grew into a continuous chorus. People stood up, glasses clinked, and the wine sloshed. At that moment, the band played a solemn hymn.
The roast duck was sliced by the waiters and served with golden risotto, starting from the main table. Yolande, who hadn't uttered a word throughout the banquet, beckoned to Renault, who quickly moved closer to her to receive her command.
As Yoland cut the duck, he asked, "Renault, what kind of high-ranking sergeant are you now? This saffron-dyed rice is one thing, but is this duck really that old madman's recipe?"
Renault bowed slightly and replied with a smile, "Madam, that is a 'saint' personally certified by the late Emperor. However, this is indeed his formula. Miss Agnes only told me about it these past few days, so it's normal that you don't know."
Yoland chewed slowly, gently dabbing his lips with a linen napkin before speaking to Renault, who had been waiting quietly beside him: "Who knows how much that false prophet is still hiding? It was a big mistake not to leave him in Anjou back then. It's a pity he wasn't as healthy as he claimed, and he's been dead for almost ten years now."
The band changed to a soft dance tune to accompany the final dessert. Lavalet stood up, straightened his coat, and walked to the head of the table. He bowed slightly to Charlie.
"Your Highness, the banquet today is so exquisite in its dishes and so grand in its scale that I have rarely seen anything like it in Paris. Marshal Attire will surely appreciate Your Highness's kindness in giving us this celebration, and the soldiers at the front will surely be greatly encouraged upon hearing of it."
Charlie stood up to return the greeting, his movements somewhat stiff: "It is all thanks to your presence that this event has been so glorious."
"Your Highness is too modest," Lavalle smiled, a smile that was just right, neither obsequious nor distant. "May God bless France and Your Highness."
He bowed and took his leave, followed closely by Albrecht, who disappeared out the door. The other guests also began to leave one after another, and the hall was finally empty.
Reno directed the waiters to clean up the mess, while Mary took Charlie's arm, and the two slowly walked out of the banquet hall, through the long corridor, and up the spiral stone staircase. Upon entering the bedroom, Charlie closed the heavy oak door behind him.
All the noise, music, flattery, and scheming were shut out. Only one candle burned on the desk; Charlie didn't light any more. He went straight to the desk, sat down, took a piece of parchment from the drawer, and then a quill and an inkwell. He dipped the nib in the ink and held it above the paper.
He maintained that position for a long time. Long enough that Mary changed into her nightgown and walked behind him.
"You're so tired, aren't you going to rest?" she asked softly, placing her hand on his shoulder.
Charlie didn't turn around. He touched the paper with his pen, leaving a small, spreading ink stain.
"Atil is heading north again the day after tomorrow." His voice was soft. "I haven't written his letter yet. I think... I'll finish it tonight."
Mary's hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment. Then she leaned down and gently kissed his cheek.
"Don't stay out too late."
She turned and walked to the next room. Charlie took a deep breath and began to write.
The pen glides across the parchment, reporting on the grandeur of the banquet, describing Lavalle's toast, mentioning Yoland's discussions, the expectations in the eyes of the nobles, the loyalty of the knights... and their common teacher.
Then he stopped, a black blot spreading across the word "England".
He suddenly grabbed the few pages of parchment and tore them apart—the paper didn't tear.
His slender fingers couldn't tear the military-grade letter paper at all, and he stared at the stack of papers covered in writing for a long time.
Then he slowly released his grip and pulled a new parchment from the drawer. This time he wrote very quickly:
"The wisdom left by our teacher has helped us once again tonight. Your deer made the banquet a great success. Be careful on the front lines, and take good care of yourself."
He stopped writing and looked at the three short lines of text.
Charlie sat in the darkness, clutching the letter in his hand, motionless for a long time.
-----------------
Before I left Paris in 1420, the extravagance of court banquets had reached absurd levels. After the capital was moved to Bourges, the situation improved somewhat with the Dauphin leading the way in frugality, but it was still far from restrained—especially with the continuous defeats at the front and the English pressing closer.
But looking back on those days, I gradually understood another layer of meaning. At that time, the throne of the victorious Charles was riddled with cracks; his rule teetered on the brink of collapse, as if a gust of wind could blow it away at any moment. Those banquets weren't about pleasure; they were his way of proving to everyone—that the court was still functioning, that the king hadn't fallen. In a sense, it was also a war. Only, not with swords, but with silver platters and golden goblets.
-
Charles VII [France] Jean-Jacques de Uyssen