"Bet it had. Small loss with Blair, is what I think. I never did like the bugger's greasy great smile-you could wring the man out and do a proper fry-up with the oil."
"No argument then or now, Samkin. And that's probably exactly what happened to 'im."
They laughed grimly, and Aylward went on: "What about the prince?"
"Sir Nigel took an SAS team to Sandringham to fetch him; we used the back roads and rejoined at the coast-quite a gypsy caravan by then, the prince'd been thinking, like, and he had us sweep up all the horses and livestock we could; seed grain from Highgrove too, and tools, and some farmers he knew. And we towed a bloody great grain ship out of Southampton on the tide, with sodding rowboats: Christ, talk about hard graft!"
He shuddered at the memory and tilted his mug back.
"Isle o' Wight, eh? Might have guessed that. How many lived?" Aylward said.
"Of our folk? Three hundred fifty thousand; Jocks, Taffies an' all. Two-thirds of that on Wight."
"I'm not surprised," Aylward said, wincing a little despite himself; that was one in two hundred of the British population. Better than he'd expected, in fact. Stilclass="underline"
"Six hundred thousand by now, though."
"That's fast work with the dollies even for you, John!"
Hordle snorted laughter and shook his head: "We brought in a lot of foreigners from Iceland and the Faeroes, you see. They lasted out the first year at home on sheep and fish, but they were up against it by then, and proper glad of a place to go, and we needed the hands something fierce by then to get the crop in: "
"Sir Nigel said something about the prince getting eccentric."
Hordle grinned, without much mirth. "He did good work at first, mind you, but then: eccentric? I think went bloody barking mad was more what he had in mind. Sir Nigel and some others were going to do something about it, only Charlie decided to do something about them first-or rather Queen Hallgerda did. Those Tasmanians had a ship in, they agreed to give asylum-Charlie had put their backs up something frightful-so young Mr. Loring and Major Buttesthorn and a few of the lads and I broke Sir Nigel out of Woburn, and got him down to the ship-just like Robin Hood and Bad King John, it was-and here we are."
"Gotten short-spoken in your dotage," Aylward said. "What happened once you got here, then?"
"Ah, well, Sir Nigel would be the one to tell about that."
"Now," Havel said an hour later, "we have time to talk, by Christ Jesus."
The Englishmen were around the table, Juniper Mackenzie with them; the Bearkiller leaders flanked Havel; everyone was slightly damp from the baths. The room was private-Arvand Sarian's people had laid it, lit the lanterns and brought the food: lentil soup, fresh bread, butter, spring salads, kebabs of chicken and lamb and garlic-rich yogurt on the side, platters of smoking pork ribs with a hot red sauce, French fries, roast vegetables. They'd also set out jugs of wine and water, cider and beer.
Will Hutton spoke as he reached for a rib: "I don't think Arminger's men were pushin' hard, Mike, not once they realized these English folks was past 'em for good. We may have killed a couple; had about half a dozen wounded ourselves. Susanna Clarke got a lance point on her shield and went over the crupper: broken thighbone and half a dozen ribs stove and a nasty cut on her face, but she'll pull through."
Nigel Loring stirred. Michael Havel held up a hand: "Everything in its place, Sir Nigel. Let's hear Lady Juniper first."
Juniper took a pull at her beer. "Is tuisce deoch na sceal. A story begins with a drink."
To her surprise, Sir Nigel answered in the same tongue: "But Nuair a bhionn an fion istigh, bionn an ciall amuigh. When the wine is in, the sense is out!"
Juniper chuckled and inclined her head. "Ah, but beer, now: Well, it all started a little before Beltane-May Eve to you cowans," she went on, her storyteller's voice clear without loudness, the words smoothly knit. "We'd gotten word that the Protector and most of his household troops were out away past the Columbia Gorge."
Signe nodded; so did Sir Nigel.
"We were with him, worse luck," the Englishman said. "Pretty country, but deplorable company."
Juniper chuckled. "And it struck us that since Witches are not obliged to turn the other cheek, a good ringing slap across his was due for the breaking of our border. I was killing half a flock of birds with one stone: "
Chapter Thirteen
Dun Juniper/Sutterdown, Willamette Valley, Oregon
April 29th-May 3rd, 2007 AD-Change Year Nine
Juniper yawned as she set the big basket of eggs down on the wooden counter, then went to one of the smaller sinks to wash her hands-getting their potential offspring out from under sitting free-range hens wasn't the most sanitary procedure in the world. Besides which, the birds pecked even when you thanked them politely and explained your need, which was understandable but annoying. A cook grabbed the basket and bore the hundred or so eggs off to be washed, cracked into bowls, mixed with cream and chopped scallions and cooked into fluffy scrambled form.
"Thanks, Juney," Diana Trethar said absently, sitting at a table and making notes. "I'm trying to come up with something different for this Beltane feast coming."
"Diana, it's going to be a potluck anyway! Do a pig or two, roast venison if Cernunnos sends us a deer, Bacchus pudding and wreath cake, and leave the rest to people's imagination!"
The slim dark woman returned to her lists, obviously not having heard a word. Unlike most people, her current job wasn't all that different from what she'd done before the Change-in her case, running MoonDance restaurant, where she'd been in charge of the kitchens and researching recipes.
"I just want something new," she said after a moment of pure focus, eyes blank as she tapped the feather of her quill pen against her lips.
Juniper gave a peal of laughter. "Remember when the problem was making food for twenty feed thirty-five?"
Diana flashed her a quick grin. "That's what the Eternal Soup was for," she said. "Most efficient way of feeding a big group ever invented."
"Most boring, you mean."
"That too. But we were usually too hungry and too scared to be bored back then, if I remember it right." Her eyes went back to the paper. "Hmmm: custards for dessert, maybe: "
The rest of the long kitchen set against the rear of the Hall was bustling; ancient Mackenzie tradition, hallowed by all the years since their very first harvest, was that the Chief kept open house and a free table-for clansfolk, visitors, and even for gangrels and tramps. Bakers reached into the arched brick ovens with long wooden paddles, bringing out rolls and fruit tarts and round arched loaves of bread with an eight-spoked Wheel cut into their brown crusts; the ovens and the bank of woodstoves made it warm even early in the morning with doors and windows all open, and pleasantly full of a medley of good scents that made the saliva rush into her mouth: the sharp odor of brewing herbal tea, bread and biscuits baking, pancakes in butter-greased skillets bubbling and developing lacy crusts around their edges, porridge giving off smooth thick pooofh: pooofh sounds, and then there were bacon and ham and sausages sizzling and popping:
Dishes were already coming back on trolleys. At one of the large sinks salvaged from the kitchens of a hotel, a team of "corks"-individuals who could be stuffed into any empty chore that needed doing-were scrubbing briskly and setting the plates and saucers and mugs to drain. One of them had a braid of white-blond hair down her back and a slightly mutinous look on her long sculpted face.
Juniper grinned inwardly. Sorry, Astrid dear, she thought. Chores are for everyone, and this isn't Larsdalen. You're an adopted Mackenzie in Dun Juniper, not a princess!
She let the washing continue until the current stack was done, then called her name, jerking her chin towards the main Hall. Astrid tapped Eilir on the shoulder, and they took off their bib-aprons and dodged out into the great room, tossing them at two others who were on the duty roster and looking reasonably finished. There were more folk at the long tables than was usual, making a cheerful clatter of cutlery and of voices as they called back and forth; most of those who were going to Sutterdown for the ceremonies had chosen to eat here rather than in their own homes. Juniper went to the sideboard where food and crockery waited, filled a big bowl with oatmeal porridge-it was studded with dried fruit, cherries and chunks of apple and pear and crumbled hazelnuts-poured on thick yellow cream, put a mug of the tea on her tray, and made her way to the head table. That was raised on a low dais, and her chair was a thronelike affair carved from oak and maple and walnut by Dennis himself, the pillars behind ending in stylized raven's-heads for Thought and Memory and arching to support a Triple Moon.