Free The Skin Map by Stephen R. Lawhead

pale pink slabs of flesh he did not recognize. The meat was somewhat chewy, but with a fine, delicate flavour unlike any other meat he had ever tasted.
    “Ah-ha!” exclaimed Sir Henry, watching him with amusement. “You are a very trencherman, sir. I salute you!”
    “It is wonderful,” enthused Kit around a large mouthful. “This one is especially delicious. What is it?” He held up what remained of the slice for inspection.
    “Oh, yes!” answered Sir Henry appreciatively. “You have hit on it there, sir. For that is hart’s tongue—a specialty of the house—aged and then brined, and slow roasted. I daresay you’ve never tasted the like.”
    “I don’t get out much,” remarked Kit. He finished the slice, and another, before moving on to taste a little more of the venison. Two additional bowls, largely overlooked, were also present on the board. One contained a mash of turnips and parsnips mixed with cream and drenched with melted butter, and the other held some sort of sautéed greens. He spooned up a hefty helping of the mash and politely tasted the greens, then resumed his steady work on the heap of ribs and shanks before him. By the time Kit pushed himself away, his bowl was a slaughterhouse tangle of bones and gristle, and his cheeks, chin, and hands were dripping with grease. He felt as if he might possibly explode from internal pressure and that, all things considered, this would probably be for the best.
    “Well done, sirs!” cried Sir Henry. He commended them on their gustatory prowess and sat back in his chair, smoothing the fat from his trim beard with glistening fingers. As the serving boys appeared to clear away the carnage, he announced, “I believe we shall take our port and sweetmeats in private, gentlemen.” Rising from his chair, he paused to wipe his mouth and hands on the tablecloth. “This way, if you please.”
    Kit rose to follow. Sir Henry paused, picked up the apostle spoon, and turned to Kit. “Any man who would hold his own at table with me must wield a ready spoon.” He handed the silver utensil to him. “It would please me to offer you this as a commemorative token of our new friendship.”
    Kit glanced at his great-grandfather for guidance. Cosimo smiled and gave him a slight nod of encouragement.
    “Then I would be honoured to accept it in the spirit in which it is offered, Sir Henry,” he said, in imitation of the high-flown style of address. “I shall treasure it.”
    Sir Henry beamed and then led them back through the dining room and up a staircase to a smaller chamber where, as the landlord had said, a table had been made ready and a fire glowed in the grate. Sir Henry settled into one of the big leather chairs and waved his guests to others. A small bald man appeared with a decanter of ruby liquid that he proceeded to pour into shallow silver cups.
    “Thank you, Barnabas. We will see to ourselves. You may go,” said Sir Henry Fayth when they each had a cup in hand. The serving man gone, he lifted his cup and said, “Here now, let us discuss the issues of the day.”
    “Nothing would please me more,” replied Cosimo. “First, however, I would hear more about this experiment that you have proposed in the hall tonight.”
    “Oh, that,” replied Sir Henry. “The merest trifle, a bit of subterfuge—nothing more.”
    “But do you think it wise?”
    “I think it wise to nip the weed in the bud,” replied Sir Henry reasonably. “Too many of our members are talking about this so-called ley discovery. By leading and conducting an experiment which not only fails, but is seen to fail—and fail spectacularly, I might add—then no respectable member will dare raise the subject again for fear of being considered . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “. . . ridiculous, yes—a laughingstock, let us say.”
    “I see,” replied Cosimo doubtfully.
    “You disagree, sir?”
    “Not entirely.” Cosimo shook his head. “No.”
    Sir Henry took a sip