Free Passion's Exile by Glynnis Campbell Page B

Blade drummed his fingers restlessly upon the table and listened with little interest to the conversations around him.
    Fulk soothed Drogo’s ego, whispering to him that despite the impressiveness of the meal, Drogo still reigned as the finest cook in all of Scotland.
    The tanners, Ivo and Odo, toasted loudly, draining their flagons again and again. Blade wondered if they knew how much stronger Bordeaux was than the beer to which they were accustomed.
    Brigit the brewster giggled at something the goldsmith said, leaning close to give him an unobstructed view of her ample bosom, which earned him a sharp kick from Lettie, across the table from him.
    The silent soldier sat staring into his wine, garnering several shy glances from the lad, Guillot, beside him.
    And seated beside their host, Simon the palmer and Father Peter orated about past pilgrimages until Sir Fergus’s head drooped and his thin gray beard began to dip into his trencher.
    Sweetmeats were brought last to the table, and Blade, having little taste for sweets, dumped the lot of his serving into his napkin. He nudged Wilham. After a disgruntled frown, Wilham surrendered his portion as well.
    Then Father Peter announced that, because Sir Fergus had so generously provided food and lodging for all the pilgrims that passed this way—which announcement roused the poor old knight from his slumber—the pilgrims should repay him with a bit of entertainment, namely the telling of stories. He further charged that on each of the evenings of pilgrimage, two travelers should relate a story, so that by the time they reached St. Andrews, nearly everyone would have told one tale.
    Blade fought the urge to roll his eyes. A man of few words, he didn’t relish telling stories. Fortunately, Father Peter was quick to volunteer himself for the first tale.
    ‘Twas a parable Blade had heard before, The Divided Horsecloth, so as the priest began to relate in dramatic fashion the misadventures of the merchant who yielded too much of his wealth to his son, Blade let his gaze wander along the upper chambers of the hall.
    She was probably in that first room at the top of the stairs. The central chambers were larger rooms and likely reserved for the pilgrims. The last room belonged to Sir Fergus himself. The first chamber was much smaller, though well-appointed, with tapestries and carpets and even Sir Fergus’s pair of pet finches. ‘Twas where Wilham and he had stayed as guests when they’d defended the manor.
    The priest finished up his tale, citing the moral as a warning to those who are about to marry off their sons, that they shouldn’t strip themselves so bare as to rely upon the charity of others in the end.
    Blade dutifully applauded with the others, and the priest, beaming at the praise, lingered over it until he was forced to pass the task onto the next storyteller. The curly-headed scholar, Bryan, wasted no time in volunteering.
    “An envious man and a covetous man were friends—as much as such men may be,” Bryan began.
    Wilham elbowed Blade, whispering, “I like this one.”
    “Saint Martin himself found them travelin’ upon the road and decided to reward their evil souls,” Bryan continued. “So he said, ‘I’ll bless each o’ ye with a gift. The man who reveals to me his desire shall be granted it, but the man who refrains from speech shall be granted twice what is bestowed upon his fellow.’”
    Wilham grinned, and Blade nodded. He could already see the story would end badly, and he ignobly wondered how long the telling would take.
    He folded the napkin over the food he’d scavenged, lifting his eyes again to the upstairs chamber. By the time all this nonsense was over, the lass would surely be asleep. After all, she’d looked half-dead on the road. He frowned down at the useless bundle in his lap, silently cursing as the tale droned on and on.
    “And so the envious man said to Saint Martin,” the scholar finally concluded with great elan, “‘I