Draka woke. He was cradled against Vigora in the bed of hay in her stall within the stables of the barracks. It was nearly exactly the same as the ones at the Palais Rohan, save for it being a bit smaller and with fewer horses. That was good. Less likely for Vigora to cause trouble, though she had been far too well behaved this entire time.

  He had been assured that the stableman, who endeared himself to her with a squeaky toy, that she would be walked while Draka was handling things today. He had far too much to do, as usual, to be able to ride her. And she needed to be ridden, needed to get out of the stall as much as he did. Oh, to be able to ride, just once, would be a much needed relief.

  The toy was still between Vigora’s teeth as she slept with her chin resting over Draka’s temple. It squeaked with every snore of butterflies. Draka carefully slid from under her long nose and eased his way out of the stall to keep from waking her.

  Draka stretched his arms and back with a yawn. He hoped that Nina had done what she said. He hoped that the orders he gave when he woke from that nightmare—which turned out to be an oddly pleasant dream as well—were all done. He would find out soon enough. He stretched by holding his hands together and twisting his back side to side. It was probably only a few hours of sleep, but when he laid down again, it was dreamless and deep.

  Two other stall doors opened. Draka let his arms fall. Portis and Tilly stepped out from stalls on either side of him, similarly in their cotton shirts and belted trousers, yawning. They stretched sleepily as Draka eyed the two of them.

  “Good morning,” Tilly said through a yawn while arching his back with his arms stretched upward.

  “Your majesty,” Portis was twisting from side to side, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

  Draka rolled his eyes. He had far too much to do to than to deal with this now. He grabbed his boots and shook his head as he left them behind.

  “How odd,” Clarissa was standing at the window. For some reason, she was still in her night dress.

  Unusual for her, Christophe noted but only with half a thought. She was probably just having one of those days. He never kept track of her moods or much else that she did except when it affected him.

  Christophe didn’t pay her much attention as he waited for one of the servants to place the covered plate of his breakfast on the table in front of him.

  She had been at that window for a while, for some reason, talking nonsense about the square being full of more people than usual. They probably were curious about what Draka was doing. He tried not to think about it yet. Nothing he thinks about on an empty stomach ever amounted to much anyway. He lifted his fork and knife.

  The servant pulled the cover away to reveal a single steaming potato with a slice down the middle and some chives sprinkled over a scoop of butter. Christophe regarded it for a moment.

  “What is this?” He eyed the servant, who shifted under his gaze.

  “A potato, my lord,” the servant answered stiffly.

  “I see that it’s a potato,” Christophe growled. “But why is it a potato?”

  “You really should come see this,” Clarissa said from the window.

  “I’m trying to deal with something, my love,” Christophe said with a sideways glare in her direction. Then, setting the fork and knife down on either side of the plate, he said to the servant, “Take this back and you had better return with some real food or there will be hell to pay. Do you understand me?”

  “But…”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself,” Christophe leaned back from it. “Tell the chef I want eggs, sausage, and if there is even a pinch of potatoes on the plate that comes back, I will cut his fingers off and serve it to the dogs.” As the servant took the plate, he grabbed his arm, “And fruit for the Baroness.”

  “I think the tables have fruit on them,” Clarissa called to him, lifting a curtain to get a better look.

  He didn’t let go of the servant’s arm. “What?” He looked up at the servant with his brows pushed together.

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you, my lord,” the servant began as Christophe got to his feet, finally letting him go.

  “Did you say tables?” Christophe pushed Clarissa from the window and shoved the curtain out of the way.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The moment his eyes fell upon the line of tables stretching the length of the Cathedral, one end to the other, with people filing by with plates and bowls in hand, he knew. Every part of it, he recognized. The tables, their cloths, the wide and tiered silver plates of sliced cakes, decorative porcelain and ivory bowls overflowing with fruits, sausages and eggs filling silver platters in heaps, all were his. Even the polished silver ladles and tongs that reflected the sun into his eyes as the nuns used them to fill his ivory plates in the hands of the dirty-faced, filthy-clothed commoners who held them, belonged to him.

  “Ready my horse!”

  They had set up a tent to cover the tables and the workers behind them. Monastic Knights kept the lines orderly with smiles. Some followed the smallest children so their mothers could hold plates and bowls while they were filled and, when necessary, beaming, would lift the children to have their own plates filled with scoops of hash and chops of sausage, bits of cake, a branch of grapes or an orange. Sometimes a handful of strawberries for a toothless smile. Nuns laughed as they made their scoops. Clerics, only wearing their belted maces as a show of rank, but otherwise in their plain clothes, were issuing the dinnerware at the beginning of the line until they ran out. Then they would begin on the crates of the Cathedral’s stocks of dinnerware.

  In the kitchens, the Cellarer had the stocks being carried out by the Monastic Knights to be loaded into wagons and the boats on the canal. Monks and more knights, once they were full, brought them either by street or by canal to the different parts of the city, where they were met by nuns and other knights, along with volunteers who, miraculously, met the first ones to arrive.

  Mother Felicia had gone to the poorest areas of the streets with the wagons and carts that had been loaded full of blankets and linens, along with some knights to help with setting tables and tents. Priests were at the stairs into the canals all across the city, even Father Bruno, with lines of people who had their first full bellies, giving baptisms. One after another was baptized in the waters that flowed between the many islands that formed the city of Strasbourg. And each of those islands had a line of tables at its center where barrels of the Cathedral’s and Palais’s food were being carried to the kitcheners, monks, and nuns to cook and serve to those who their knights helped into lines.

  Draka was where the stew was being made of the Baron’s rice and mutton in a pot as tall and deep as his water barrel at home. The kitchener was laughing and joking with one of the volunteers, a soft-faced man in his fifties who was regaling his days as a miner in a humorous way.

  The kitchener guffawed as he stirred the stew with a long-handled spoon. As each person passed, Draka smiled and scooped the steaming stew—making sure he got at least a small bit of vegetables and meat in it—and poured it into their bowl. None of them knew who he was. They only smiled back and continued down the line with their filled plates and bowls to where they could sit in the square with their families and friends to eat.

  Christophe rode his horse out the gate, followed by his guard. He had ordered the patrols to be doubled through the streets.

  It was his food and it was meant for his men. So, they would eat. That was his order. They would integrate into the lines and get theirs as well. But otherwise, he made sure they understood, they weren’t to stop it. If they did, the city would know. That was the last thing he wanted.

  If the city knew he had been withholding the food, sending it to his troops instead, they would riot. Not that there was much for them, either, but that wasn’t the point. His men had been obviously given more. And if he had forced Clarissa to eat the way she should have been all this time? Christophe didn’t want to think about what that would have caused. The woman would have no problems with ordering the execution of entire districts so that she could have her snacks.

  He looked over the line of tables through the people filing past them, over the faces of the nuns and monks, the knights walking to and from in full armor, with their shields strapped to their backs, though the Clerics were in their plainest attire and walking among the line with far too much ease. Draka expected him to do something. Expected him to incite violence. To take advantage of the vulnerability of the nuns and priests. But he won’t. He’ll let him have his day. The people think he’s the one feeding them anyway. This was still a victory for him as well.

  Draka met his eyes from amongst those serving the people and Christophe felt a shiver crawl his spine. He was smiling, but his eyes—those golden hazel eyes that could be found in a sea of people—had hate in them. Christophe grinned as arrogantly as he could muster and nodded salute, then spurred his horse to lead his patrol on.

  He could turn this around. It wouldn’t take much. He had already told the people in his speech that this was coming. They believed him, knew him. Not Draka. He would rule this city, rule this kingdom, when this was over.

  He led the patrol down a street toward the Rhine river, toward the district where the trade-workers lived and were building the defenses against the coming invasion. At least they would have no question about their loyalty.

  Something caught Christophe’s eye. He stopped his horse. A wooden sign, in a line of wooden shops signs, that normally was for his favorite tailor, had been painted over.

  ‘Dresses’ had been crudely painted over its trademark.

  Christophe looked up to the shop sign closest to him, its neighbor.

  ‘Baroness’s’ was just as crudely painted over the trademark of a shoemaker.

  He narrowed his eyes, pursing his brows. He backed his horse up, the patrol of horsemen backing theirs to make way for him.

  ‘Wear’ the next sign had been painted over a hatmaker’s.

  Christophe stopped his horse. Following the signs, his mouth fell open. In yellow paint, the signs, when lined together, read, ‘Don’t Wear the Baroness’s Dresses.’

  He turned to across the street. Painted across the building, in the same paint, just above the extended awnings of the café, was more crude graffiti. This one was far more familiar.

  His skin crawled.

  In big yellow letters that reached nearly the length of the building, from alley to alley, ‘Let Them Eat Cake.’