The Lady Guest

The great hall of the castle was quiet even though it was full. So as not to be unholy on this eve of the birth of the Most Holy, Jesus Christ, the Lord and Savior. The guests moved with subdued solemnity between the rows of long yellow beeswax candles on golden stands; the walls adorned with evergreen holly garlands. The flickering candlelight and the massive fireplaces along the stone walls created a warm and festive atmosphere. There was an implicit dress code of simplicity, as it were. The ladies in their full-length golden kirtles dyed with chamomile and saffron. The linen of the under gowns were of the best of the crop and were purest white, bleached by the summer sun rays. The men with their blue woolen surcoats and green stockings dyed with buckthorn and woad. As guests in their simple medieval attire mingled, the sound of peaceful discussions and the aroma of roasted meats filled the air. It was the most anticipated event of the season, a grand Christmas feast hosted by the noble Richelieu family, renowned for their effortless and splendid events.

The chapel that was attached to the great hall had a specific purpose for the guests and all were present for the evening prayers and Mass. The resinous scent of frankincense wafted through the nostrils of the attendees as they knelt upon the cold flagstones. Once the priest had elevated the Monstrance, and their eyes had been bless-ed by the sacred symbol of The Lord, the procession was rapidly made toward the grand hall again. 

The first remove was brought to the long wooden tables that the guests were seated at. A round bread trencher was placed before each guest, and a chicken and thyme soup were ladled into each. Silver spoons were delicately handled and the soup sipped upon in small amounts as befitting polititude and grace. Once the soup had been supped, the next part of the first remove appeared, the trenchers remained, but not all were intact. Some took sections of the hard bread apart with a small blade to eat later on with sauces from other dishes. Delectable venison pies the size of baby fists. Not put into the mouth whole in a ghastly manner that would offend The Lord above but cut into even smaller portions and nibbled upon. The servants then came out holding platters of fish, which were placed upon the middle of the long tables and left to be cut by each guest. They did not think to stand over the table in a foul manner as that would see them thrown to the pig stalls. The courses of the removes went on through the night. As the evening progressed, the laughter grew heartier, and the cauldron-warmed mead flowed freely. 

The hall was alive with color and merriment, yet among the familiar faces, a ripple of intrigue began to spread about the lavishly dressed lady. It started with a whisper, a hushed comment passed from one guest to another. Who is that? Have you seen her before? Is she royalty from somewhere? Heads turned, eyes narrowed, and curiosity piqued as the object of their speculation glided around the gathering.

Clad in a silken purple nucella lapillus dyed gown that shimmered in the candlelight, the mysterious guest exuded an air of enigma. A blue and gold felt mask, intricately designed and adorned with delicate rose petals and snowberries concealed her identity, adding to the allure. It was completely baffling as to her royal background. Obviously royal, as no commoner could ever touch an nth of the wealth required for such exquisite clothing. Perhaps she was a figure from a distant land, who had somehow misunderstood the particulars. All the others were dressed simply, as it was already known. She was clearly unaware of the proper attire. Even if everyone else could afford what she wore, it was a travesty. The point was to remain pious and to have similitude in order to appear devoted to the Holiest One.

Despite the anonymity, her presence commanded attention. She moved with a poise and confidence that suggested familiarity with such grand affairs, yet there was no hint of recognition in the eyes of the other attendees. It was as if she were a phantom, a ghostly apparition that had materialized out of the winter's mist.

Conversations halted as the guest approached clusters of people, offering her soft hand to be kissed by the men without a trace of embarrassment. She spoke little, her voice a soft murmur that left those she addressed with more questions than answers. Attempts to engage her in conversation were met with polite deflection, and any inquiries about her identity were skilfully sidestepped.

The host, a woman of impeccable grace and hospitality, was soon alerted to the presence of the unfamiliar attendee. With a serene smile that masked her own curiosity, she approached the guest.

"Merry eve," she greeted warmly, her eyes scanning the features of the enigmatic face obscured by the mask. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting. I am Lady Léopoldine Genovefa 'Atalya Yocheved Richelieu." The guest inclined her head in acknowledgment. "A pleasure, Lady Richelieu. I must commend you on a truly splendid feast."

"Thank you," Lady Richelieu replied, her curiosity barely concealed. "Might I inquire as to whom I have the pleasure of addressing?"

Before Lady Richelieu could probe further, one of the golden ladies saw to it that this mockery was abruptly put to a stop.

The lady stepped in front of Lady Richelieu, standing in between the two. "I say! Reveal your face!" The stranger moved backwards with a light spring in her step. Frowning behind the mask.

"I'll reveal it for you!" Shouted the golden lady insistently. She moved her hand to touch the mask upon the stranger’s face. A dagger flashed from the folds of the stranger’s gown.

"You'll not touch my face! Contemptible lass!" She then spun away and retreated to a corner of the great hall behind a column, sobbing angrily. 

The knights in attendance were mystified. They were unable to escort her to a carriage or even walk near her. 

As the evening came to an end, the guest made her way to the grand staircase, preparing to take her leave. The crowd parted, watching in silent anticipation. With a final, lingering glance at the assembled guests, she descended the stairs and disappeared into the frosty night, leaving behind a swirl of questions that would linger long after the last note of the lute had faded.

In the days that followed, the mysterious guest became the talk of the town. Her presence at the feast was recounted in hushed tones and embellished with each retelling like Chinese whispers. But despite the best efforts of the kingdom's most inquisitive minds, her identity remained a tantalizing secret.

And so, the enigma of the mysterious guest endured, becoming a legend in its own right—a story whispered at future gatherings, a symbol of intrigue and mystery that would forever be associated with that unforgettable Christmas eve feast at the Richelieu Castle.