It took only the briefest of glances towards the Queen, back from Gilberto for Manfred to realize his mistake. He’d overplayed his hand, let slip his familiarity with the Queen, it would have been more than apparent to all present, and he’d even handed the King and Prince a perfectly good excuse to challenge him to a duel. Yet, neither had . . . the inner machinations of his mind were running wild with the implications, yet his outward appearance remained the picture of understated courtesy. There was only one course of action he arrived at, and it might yet work to his advantage all the better . . .<br/><br/><br/>Manfred laughed heartily at Gilberto’s jibe, gesturing in mirth to the King, as if the barbed comment were the most merry any man could have uttered. “Too right your grace, and while I’m certain my father would role in his grave to hear me say it, but food for the army, is no food fit to be eaten.” He then turned back to the king and lifted his cup in a celebratory gesture, “Which is why every lord worth his title in the Protectorate employs a Miraglanese chef!”<br/><br/><br/>There was an uproar of laughter, begun with the remainder of the diplomatic party, as they took it in turn and on cue to share their own stories of the hardships of food and fare to be found in their homeland. Manfred’s irreverence and forward nature could now easily be written off as a facet of the barbaric culture from which he hailed, however much he paraded at being a proper nobleman. There was but one more element he had to put in place. Leaning in close to the king, he made to speak with him somewhat more privately, but still spoke just loudly enough to be overheard by the proper ears.<br/><br/><br/>“I hope you will excuse my most egregious slip of the tongue in regards to your wife, the Queen, and convey my apologies to her as well for the use of her childhood name. I fear I may not boast your majesty’s tolerance nor capacity for libations.” He leaned back and raised his glass in due apology to the King, then continued. “You see, had the good fortune to be raised a ward of your beloved Queen’s good father. He took me, in, last son to an impoverished noble household, and raised me as his own, a foster brother to his beloved daughter. Though I fear I could never replace the son he lost to the Hordelands.”.<br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/><br/>Meanwhile, Camilla had been pulled aside, out of the feast by Otto, Manfred’s spymaster who was even now tearing up the note the Queen had written in response to his own. He had sequestered the young handmaiden outside the great hall, away from prying ears and eyes to speak with her.<br/><br/><br/>“You are a foolish girl to assist even the queen in such brazen overtures!” He whispered in a voice as cold and steely as the blade hidden up his sleeve: “Inform your mistress that your master has already made preparations for a ‘reunion’ and pray that he does not consider you a ‘loose end’ in the matter and order me to dispose of you.”<br/><br/><br/>Outwardly, it might have appeared the simple dressing down of a serving girl by some lord, and Otto’s voice conveyed as much. He was clearly a veteran of many affairs of court, though his shaven head and bright eyes made it difficult to guess his age, one had to wonder if he might have even been approaching the King’s ripe old age. Every ounce of weight those years carried was now leveled at impressing upon Camilla the importance of her discretion and secrecy, as his icy eyes seemed to bore into her very soul. Those same eyes could not help but also offer their appreciation for the young woman’s nubile and lithesome form, beneath her dress. His hand reached out and clutched at her waist, hold her fast for a final glare, before a firm spank on her pert rear sent the handmaiden scurrying away. Otto stood for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully.<br/><br/>“Perhaps I will make personal arrangements to see that girls mouth is occupied with something other than rumor mongering . . .”