Royal Food Taster- Complete Story

Chapter 1

The hall was a place of power, where banners of gold and crimson hung heavy with history, their edges fraying under the weight of years. King Albert sat on his carved oak throne, crowned with the heads of roaring lions. Though his hair was as white as a winter field, his eyes had not dulled; they burned with the intensity of a man who had lived through rebellion, famine, and war.

Below him knelt five men, hands bound with thick ropes, faces pale as ash. The accused, dressed in the faded finery of minor lords, seemed to shrink beneath the weight of the king’s gaze.

Lord Wetherby, the eldest and most brazen of the conspirators, raised his head. His jowls quivered as he spoke, his voice thin and desperate. “Your Grace,” he began, his words faltering, “our intent was not to harm the prince but to safeguard the realm. His… reforms threaten all we have built. The nobility—”

“Are no more sacred than the dirt beneath my boots,” King Albert interrupted, his voice like the cracking of old ice. “You sought to murder Harrold, the last of my blood, the future of this kingdom, merely months after the death of his beloved sister, Princess Charlotte. Tell me, Lord Wetherby, where is the justice in treachery?”

Wetherby faltered, his lips trembling. The other conspirators made no attempt to defend themselves.

Prince Harrold stood beside his grandfather, his broad frame clad in simple yet elegant black. The prince had grown into a figure of legend: taller than most men, with shoulders wide as a yoke. His hands rested lightly on the pommel of his sword, the image of a warrior tempered by wisdom. But there was no triumph in his expression as he watched the men who had plotted his death.

“This kingdom has bled for centuries under the weight of your greed,” Harrold said, his voice calm but cutting. “The peasants starve while your coffers overflow. I will not apologize for returning to them what is theirs by right.”

The hall murmured. The nobles who had gathered to witness the sentencing exchanged uneasy glances.

King Albert raised a hand, silencing the crowd. “The sentence for treason is death. Take them to the block. Let their blood be a lesson to those who would betray the crown.”

As the guards dragged the condemned men from the hall, Harrold turned to his grandfather. “This will not end with their deaths,” he said quietly.

King Albert nodded, his expression grim. “No, it will not. That is why you must have someone you can trust at your side.”

The training yard smelled of sweat and earth, the sharp tang of iron in the cold air. Arthur Winfield was practicing drills with his fellow squires, his wooden blade moving with precision. At five feet ten, he was neither the tallest nor the strongest, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in speed.

“Arthur!”

He turned to see Ser Gareth, his father, striding across the yard. The elder knight wore his age like a badge of honor—his face lined, his armor battered but meticulously clean.

“Father,” Arthur said, lowering his sword.

Ser Gareth’s expression was unreadable as he approached. “Come with me. The king has summoned you.”

Arthur froze. “The king?”

Ser Gareth nodded. “It is an honor, but also a great responsibility. Do not shame me, boy.”

The journey to the royal chambers felt like a dream. Arthur’s mind raced with possibilities, none of them comforting. When they reached the heavy oak doors, Ser Gareth placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll do well,” his father said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Remember your training. And speak only when spoken to.”

Arthur nodded, though his stomach churned with nerves.

The royal dining hall was unlike anything Arthur had ever seen. Its vaulted ceilings soared like the heavens, adorned with frescoes of battles long won. Chandeliers of wrought iron held dozens of flickering candles, casting golden light over the vast room. The scent of roasted meats and fresh-baked bread made his mouth water, though he dared not show it.

Prince Harrold was already seated at the high table, a goblet of wine in one hand and a half-eaten leg of lamb in the other. He looked every bit the warrior prince: his tunic strained against his broad chest, his dark hair fell in loose waves, and his eyes—cold and calculating—fixed on Arthur the moment he entered.

“This is the boy?” Harrold asked, his voice carrying across the hall.

Arthur swallowed hard and stepped forward. “Yes, Your Grace. I am Arthur Winfield, son of Ser Gareth.”

Harrold’s gaze swept over him, lingering on his slender frame. “You’re smaller than I expected.”

Arthur’s cheeks flushed, but he stood tall. “I may be small, Your Grace, but I am quick.”

Harrold barked a laugh, the sound deep and genuine. “Quick, eh? Let’s hope so. I’d hate to lose a food tester on his first day.”

The assembled nobles chuckled, but Arthur felt no relief.

“Come closer,” Harrold said, gesturing to the seat beside him.

Arthur obeyed, his heart pounding. Before him was a table laden with food: steaming pies, roasted pheasants, platters of fruit glistening with honey. It was enough to feed a village, yet Harrold was already reaching for another helping.

“You’ll taste everything before I do,” Harrold said, his tone casual. “The lords of the court have developed an unfortunate habit of lacing my meals with poison. You’ll make sure I survive the night.”

Arthur stared at the table, his stomach twisting. He was not afraid of poison—he trusted the king’s guard to ensure his safety. No, it was the sheer volume of food that terrified him. How was he supposed to eat even half of it?

The prince leaned closer, his voice dropping. “If you fail, Arthur, I’ll be forced to find another tester. And I’d rather not have to explain to my betrothed why I arrived at the altar looking like a corpse.”

Arthur blinked. “Your betrothed, Your Grace?”

Harrold smirked. “Princess Caroline Bouvier of Francholia. A beauty with fair and soft skin, auburn hair and welcoming green eyes. A delicate flower, they call her. Though I suspect she has thorns.”

The prince’s words hung in the air as Arthur reached for the first dish, his hands trembling. The weight of his task was suddenly very real—and very heavy.

The hall was a furnace of smells and sound, each course brought forth under a fanfare of silver platters and steaming dishes, each more lavish than the last. Roasted suckling pig stuffed with spiced apples and chestnuts, its glistening skin crackling under the knife. Eel pies ringed with golden crusts, rich and aromatic, the scent of sage and butter curling into Arthur’s nostrils like a dare. Honey-glazed root vegetables glistened beside mounds of crushed parsnip, the sweetness offset by a sharp, vinegared tang. Whole pheasants, their feathers replaced by threads of gold and crimson silk, lay side by side with hares basted in red wine and peppered figs.

Arthur Winfield, barely eighteen and with the nerves of a boy trapped in a man’s game, was already sweating beneath his collar. He sat to the right of Prince Harrold, a place of immense honor—or extreme peril—depending on how one viewed the matter. The cutlery trembled slightly in his hands as he sliced into a venison haunch soaked in blackberry glaze.

“Eat,” Harrold said, without looking at him. “And don’t be timid. Poison doesn’t wait politely.”

Arthur bit into the meat. Warm juices filled his mouth—smoky, sweet, and tart with the sting of vinegar and wild berries. His eyes flicked toward the goblet nearest him.

“Wine too,” Harrold said, noticing the hesitation. “Banyen claret. A good vintage. Unless it’s laced with nightshade. Then it’s rather poor.”

Arthur forced a laugh he didn’t feel and took a sip. The wine was dark and strong, with a smoky finish and just enough acidity to cut through the fatty meats. It might’ve been enjoyable if not for the pounding of his pulse in his throat.

Across the long table, nobles feasted with less caution. Duke Renwold tore into a drumstick with the grace of a bear. Lady Arla picked at oysters steamed in lavender and lemon broth, flanked by footmen ready to refill her goblet.

The hall itself was a marvel. Built three hundred years ago by King Mathen the Proud, the ceilings soared high enough to swallow a tree whole. Stone arches ribbed the roof like the bones of a giant beast, each one painted with scenes of conquest and coronation. The floors were inlaid with obsidian and marble, arranged in a checkerwork of stags and gryphons. Along the walls hung towering banners—some fresh and brightly dyed, others faded with time. The most prominent, the royal crest of House Dandrin: a crowned sword crossed with a rearing lion, blood dripping from its maw.

Above the high table, a massive chandelier forged from a thousand iron swords loomed like a suspended battlefield. Its candlelight shimmered on Harrold’s black hair and cast dancing shadows across his proud, stern face.

“You’re not shaking as much now,” the prince said after Arthur tasted a third dish—a goose laced with orange peel and black pepper. “Growing used to fear, are you?”

Arthur wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve before catching himself. “No, Your Grace. Just… adjusting.”

Harrold gave him a sidelong look. “You’re Ser Gareth’s son, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“He unhorsed Ser Tovin of Bramhall in the Tourney of Three Kings. Snapped the bastard’s collarbone clean through. I watched it from the stands as a boy.”

Arthur couldn’t help a smile. “He still brings it up when he drinks.”

Harrold grinned. “As well he should. That was a blow for the songs. I’ve tried to study his style. Low seat, strong grip on the reins, yes?”

Arthur nodded. “He says the lance should feel like an extension of your spine. If it jolts, you’re holding it wrong.”

The prince’s grin widened. “I’ll keep that in mind for next spring’s tourney. You ever tilt?”

“A few times. Local games. Nothing grand.”

“You’ll ride for me, when the time comes,” Harrold said, lifting a goblet to his lips. “If you’re still alive, of course.”

Arthur flushed. “I would be honored.”

“Don’t say that too quickly. You might live long enough to regret it.”

They shared a quiet laugh, broken only by the clatter of more plates arriving. This time: lamb kidneys in mustard cream, blood sausage crisped over coals, and fried mushrooms stuffed with cheese and leeks. Arthur sampled each, feeling the weight of the food settle in his stomach like river stones.

“My father never had a food-tester,” Harrold said, slicing into a pheasant breast. “He said if someone wanted him dead, they’d best be clever about it.”

Arthur hesitated. “Do you think someone will try again?”

Harrold didn’t answer immediately. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and set his fork down.

“Someone always tries. Politics is just murder in nicer clothes.”

Arthur nodded, unsure if he was meant to agree or stay silent.

“You’ve got good eyes,” Harrold said suddenly. “You watch people. Not just the food. That’s good. I need someone who can think beyond the plate.”

Arthur straightened. “Then you’ll have that, Your Grace.”

“You ever think of being a knight?”

Arthur blinked. “Of course. Since I could walk.”

“Then consider this your first trial,” Harrold said, lifting a morsel to his mouth now that Arthur had tasted it. “Protect me from every threat, even the ones that come in silver platters. Do that, and I’ll see you armored and anointed.”

Arthur tried not to gape. “Truly?”

“I’m not known for empty promises,” the prince said. “Though I am known for eating too much.”

By the end of the evening, Arthur was half-delirious with fullness, the back of his throat raw from wine and salt, his belly stretched taut beneath his doublet. The final course—a dense almond cake soaked in citrus syrup—felt like a punishment from the gods.

As the plates were cleared and servants extinguished the candles one by one, the hall grew quieter, cozier. The fire in the great hearth crackled warmly, and outside, the wind keened through the high slits in the walls.

Harrold leaned back, resting his goblet on his knee.

“You did well,” he said. “No convulsions, no sweating, no death. That’s promising.”

Arthur managed a wan smile. “I’ll try to make it a habit.”

Harrold looked over at him again—not as a prince inspecting a servant, but as a man weighing another.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll join me in the practice yard. Bring a helm.”

“For tasting?”

Harrold’s grin returned, slow and wolfish. “For jousting. A food-tester should know how to fight, don’t you think?”

Arthur felt the exhaustion of the feast melt into something sharper. Pride. Purpose.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

Harrold raised his goblet. “To poison, and those who survive it.”

Arthur clinked his own cup against the prince’s.

“To survival,” he said.

And in the flickering light of the dying fire, the hall echoed not with treason, nor plots, but with the beginning of something new—two men, vastly different, but bound by food, steel, and the quiet understanding that in a world full of knives, trust was the rarest meal of all.