Free Candle in the Window by Christina Dodd Page B

called.
“My farrier tells me the mares in the stable bred clean and
true this season. Let’s go and see the colts.”
    Without pause, the conversation veered to horses,
tohalters, to saddles. The men left the hall,
William in their midst, and the serving folk scurried into
action.
    The serfs swept the head table clean and laid a
white cloth and overcloth on the board. The salt was placed in the
center while the panter hurried to Saura and asked,
“M’lady, how should we arrange th’ seatin’?
My Lord Raymond is an earl, an’ since the death of his
brother, Lord Nicholas is a baron. Lord Raymond should sit before
th’ salt, but Lord Peter insists he is th’ lord in his
own castle, barrin’ a visit from th’ king.”
    “Quite right,” Saura nodded. “So
Lord Peter and Lord Raymond shall sit before the salt. Lord William
shall share a trencher with Nicholas, Lord Peter share a trencher
with Raymond, and Charles and Arthur shall share. Do you arrange it
that way.”
    She listened to the preparation for the evening,
ever ready with a suggestion or command. She questioned whether the
room needed light, and now tall candles flickered on heavy iron
stands and torches of resinous wood smoked in wall brackets. She
asked about the meal, and was assured the trestle tables sat at
right angles to the head table, now set with eating knives and
spoons. Two trenchers rested equidistant from the center and
another set toward one end. She heard the buzz as men-at-arms,
castle watchmen, and subtenants filtered in to jostle one another.
For them, she decreed ale to drink as they waited for the nobility
to return. The laws of hospitality had provided an unexpected
bonus: their evening meal was usually a crust of bread and a thick
porridge. The roar of voices echoed deep and full until the
rattling of spurs announced the return of the lords.
    Brother Cedric said a brief grace and the working
men turned their ravenous attention to the food. Peace reigned as
they filled the yawning empty spaces of their bellies. LordPeter’s squire carved the mutton for the head
table, Kimball and Clare carried the pie and pasties in on
chargers. Servitors raced to satisfy the demands of the lower
tables, and Raymond joked, “Have you discovered a miracle pot
in your kitchen, Lord Peter? For the first time in many years, the
fare of your table is fit for consumption.”
    Lord Peter laughed, accepting another slice of meat
on the tip of his knife. “’Tis Lady Saura’s
doing. She bullies us to cleanliness. The cook lives in fear of her
visits.”
    “You mean we’ll not go to bed suffering
from a flux of the bowels?” Arthur sneered, and then halted
with his knife in midair. “Lady Saura?”
    Already sorry he had revealed his treasure, Lord
Peter chewed and swallowed before saying, “Aye, she’s
one of my wife’s relatives, come to be our
housekeeper.” He deliberately didn’t glance into the
corner where Saura huddled, afraid to draw attention to the
woman.
    “Lady Saura,” Arthur murmured.
“The only Lady Saura I know of is Saura of Roget. Now
there’s a treasure. A virtuous maiden and an heiress, but her
stepfather hides her away for fear she’ll be abducted and
married and all those glorious lands taken from his
control.”
    William raised his head and Nicholas examined his
alert face with eyes that gleamed with interest.
    “How old is she?” William asked.
    “Old. She must be…twenty-two? And never
wed. But she’s—”
    Clare tripped and spilled the venison stew into
Arthur’s lap. With a shriek, Arthur leaped up and backhanded
the boy into the wall. “Stupid oaf!” Brushing at the
thick wine sauce, he lamented the ruin of his best tunic while
servants rushed to his assistance. When the hubbub had died down,he turned to chastise the page who had caused
him so much grief, but Clare had disappeared.
    In Saura’s bedroom, she pressed him down on
her bed and laid a wet rag on his swollen face. “I thank you.
You’re a brave