Free The Iron Lance by Stephen R. Lawhead

arrives.”
    Murdo looked at the solitary loaf, and searched the length of the board in vain for anything resembling a bowl or cup, but saw none anywhere and knew his worst fears confirmed: nothing but dry bread for him today, and not so much as a sip of water to wash it down. Unable to keep his disappointment to himself any longer, he shared his gloomy opinion with his stout companion.
    But Gundrun only winked at him again, and said, “Have faith, my friend.”
    As if in response to these hopeful words, there came a commotion across the square, and Murdo saw what he took to be a procession emerge from the cloisters. Pairs of monks—dozens of them, all carrying fully-laden trenchers between them—appeared on the green and proceeded at once to the tables, where they delivered their burdens and hastened away.
    Almost before the starving Murdo could wonder whether a single platter would suffice for the entire table, two more appeared, and then two more, so that each trencher served a pair of guests either side of the board. While the monks scurriedafter more platters, still other clerics delivered silver bowls of salt to the table, placing them within reach of the diners.
    Murdo gaped at the mound of food before him. Rarely had he seen such a profusion of roast fowl: quail, doves, grouse, and pheasant. Nor was that all, for there were quartered ducks, and the smaller carcasses of larks and blackbirds, and, scattered throughout, the eggs of each of these birds.
    The platter had no sooner touched the board than Murdo’s hands were reaching for the nearest bird. His fist closed on the leg of a small duck and he pulled it from the pile, loosening a quail, which tumbled onto the table before him. Gundrun, beside him, and the two diners opposite, helped themselves as well, and a singular hush fell upon the green. Murdo finished the duck and, grease dripping from chin and fingers, started on the quail.
    â€œGood tuck, boy, no?” exclaimed Gundrun tossing bones behind him, and Murdo, mouth too full to reply, nodded enthusiastically.
    Murdo finished the quail and helped himself to a pheasant, tearing long strips of meat from the breast of the bird with his teeth. He was thus employed when two monks arrived at his place with a steaming cauldron. Murdo watched with interest as a third monk dipped a cannikin into the larger pot and proceeded to pour the contents onto the flat bread before him, before moving on to Gundrun, and so on down the bench.
    Murdo stared at the pottage; it was a deep red color, which he had never seen in a stew before. “Mawmenny,” sighed Gundrun contentedly. Lowering his face to the meal, he sniffed expertly. “Ah, yes! Enchanting!”
    Murdo had heard of the dish—said to be served in the halls of kings—but had never seen it. He put his head down and caught the mild, somewhat delicate scent of cherries. Dippingthe tip of his finger into the sauce, he found it produced an unexpected, though not unpleasant, warm tingle on his tongue together with the taste of beef and plums.
    Following Gundrun’s example, he took a lump of meat between his fingers and thumb and chewed thoughtfully, savoring the rich intermingling of unusual flavors. He then proceeded to devour the rest of the mawmenny without lifting his face from the board until he had finished each succulent morsel. He was only prevented from licking the now-empty bread trencher by the abrupt appearance of a monk who took it up and replaced it with a fresh one.
    What a splendid feast! thought Murdo, looking down the board to see the next delicacy just arriving. He saw his father, deep in conversation with Lord Brusi, and his brothers stuffing their faces and laughing loudly with Brusi’s sons. Across the yard at one of the women’s tables, he thought he saw his mother leaning across to Lady Ragnhild. Just as he made to look away again, his eye shifted and he caught sight of Ragna, gazing directly at