Free Shadows and Strongholds by Elizabeth Chadwick

aspect of court life. He was biding his time, waiting the moment when he and FitzWarin could sit in the private chamber, cups in hands, feet pointing towards the fire, heels resting on the snoozing deerhounds. There were matters other than the fostering of FitzWarin's heir to be discussed, but the dinner table was not the place.
    Finally the meal drew to a close and Mellette signalled for the fingerbowls and napkins to be brought forward. She beckoned peremptorily at Brunin, indicating that he should perform this task for his parents and their guest.
    Brunin had been lulled into a false sense of security by the presence of Joscelin's squires. They had been talking to him cheerfully throughout the meal and sharing dishes with him as if he had long been of their number. Hugh had been telling him all about Ludlow and what his duties would entail and Adam had been adding amusing asides and remarks. He was never to leave Lord Joscelin's shoes on the floor because one of the dogs had a habit of chewing them to pieces. If he saw Mistress Sibbi approaching with a pile of bandages, he was to run for his life. Ela the cook's wife baked the best griddle cakes along the Marches and if you were nice to her, she'd give you one.
    'Hah, if you're nice to Wulfrun, the laundry wench, she'll give you one too,' Hugh said.
    Adam nudged him. 'Yes, but he's too young yet. Save that for when he's got the wherewithal to do something about it.'
    The way the youth's eyebrows were waggling, Brunin knew that they weren't really talking about griddle cakes. Kissing probably, which wasn't on his agenda of interests.
    'I think your grandmother wants you,' Hugh murmured, sobering.
    'Looks as if you're getting fingerbowl duty,' Adam said.
    'That's one of the first ones. If you spill it, it's only water—it's not as if you're wasting good wine.'
    The warm feeling abandoned Brunin as if someone had snatched off his cloak on a midwinter day. He rose to his feet and approached a trestle on the edge of the dais where bowls of clean water and napkins were laid out. He could feel his grandmother's eyes boring into him like hot needles and knew that she was expecting perfection of him. The pressure of such knowledge made his hand tremble as he draped a napkin over his arm and lifted the bowl of beaten silver.
    Approaching the high table he walked with deliberate care, certain that at any moment the contents of the bowl were going to slop over the sides, or the napkin drop from his arm into the floor rushes. His heart was racing and he felt queasy. The journey from trestle to table seemed to take for ever, but finally he stood before his grandmother.
    'Guests first,' she said, her eyes censorious. 'Surely I do not have to tell you that.'
    Stiffly, Brunin presented the fingerbowl to Joscelin, who washed his hands and dried them on the proffered napkin. 'You'll have plenty of occasion to learn,' he said easily. 'There will come a time when you can handle the ceremonies without even having to think about them… Your grandmother now.' With a smile he indicated the frowning old woman.
    Courage bolstered, Brunin picked up the bowl and took two paces to the side to offer it to Mellette. Unfortunately, the second of those paces was over the rump of one of the hounds that had settled under the table to wait for scraps, its presence concealed by the drape of the cloth. Brunin tripped forward, his midriff connecting with the edge of the table. The water in the fingerbowl flew towards his grandmother in a bright silver arc, drenching her bosom and lower face in a great wet slap. She sucked a breath over her voice in a crow of shock, her eyes as wide as bridle rings, then gasped, her mouth working like a trout's. The dais table became a frozen tableau of people poised and staring in horror.
    Spinning on his heel, Brunin fled, thrusting past the servants, ducking and avoiding an attempt by one of the stewards to seize his scruff, pushing past the startled usher and bursting out