“Capon! That was Hogulent’s choice, with applemoy I remember, and all the Sweyns loved me mortrews…ceptin’ that last one. He was more for umbles. Ebraucus, now! His Grace were always too busy ruttin’ the wenches to eat proper and his son were worse’n he. Whore masters, the both of ‘em! Guess’n you could say they’s favorite was suckin’ clams!” Heggle had told him this at least half a dozen times, but she cackled louder with every telling.

“Now that slut queen we had for a bit, she ne’er let me serve, slapped Heggle’s face and called us a witch, but the Jerrods…oh they was princes through and true! The first one, he craved whelks all the time and Jerrod Second, he was apt for bacon collops.”

Padric had ignored her for two days, but today his bitter mood got the best of him. “What about the Gaunt Prince?” he asked, pushing away the dishes she set before him. “What was his dish?”

“Roast fawn,” Heggle said with a longing smile. “Or kid or lamb. I used to stuff ‘em with coney, under a year old. My lord loved his flesh young.” She fixed him with a calculating eye and her head nodded with matronly approval. “You favor him.”

Padric glared at her, fighting the impulse to throw the steaming platters in her face. “What was he like?” he managed through clenched teeth, furious at his own morbid curiosity.

“My Gaunt Lord,” Heggle said, tasting the name and finding it sweet, “he were tall, so tall…and graceful. He fought like a song, nought on above his waist, skin like milk, bejeweled red with the blood o’our enemies. And clever! Like a fox…he was crafty as I ever saw. And hungry. He were forever hungry.”

She looked so happy as she spoke, lost in memory. Padric felt a cruel urge, wanting nothing but to shatter her joy. “And he is dead,” he spat at her. “Feeding the worms for nine hundred years.”

Heggle opened her eyes and looked at him, but it was confusion, not pain, that filled her face. “So long?” she asked the serving board. “Aye, I would guess it ‘tis. Makes no matter. Heggle’ll never forget.” She went back to her preparations. “And I beg forgiveness for speakin’ such, but you are wrong, my Lord. Nine hundred years, his eyes been closed for sure, but nothin’ has eaten at him, no. He remains as comely and fine as the day I first see’s him.”

Padric’s brow wrinkled. “Remains? Heggle, you have seen him?”

“Oh aye,” a girlish excitement fell over the crone as she leaned in and whispered. “And you’ll too, afore long. Torcan will take you, you’ll see.”