The last thing Sir Peregrine wanted was for a letter to be found which promised something worthwhile after Sir Peregrine had spent all his efforts persuading Lord Hugh that the Despensers were best left alone, and that Lord Hugh should bend his support towards the Marcher Lords; if his work so far should be ruined, his credibility as an adviser would be wrecked. Not only that, his whole position in the castle could be demeaned. If Lord Hugh were to go over to the Despensers, he’d hardly be likely to entrust the guardianship of his gate to the very person who had told him never to go near the Despensers. He would send Sir Peregrine away, to a place like his holdings down towards the Cornish border.
With a shudder, Sir Peregrine called the place to mind. Bleak was a word which scarcely did the area justice.
Hearing steps above him, he rolled his eyes. It must be time for the meal. Cursing softly under his breath, Sir Peregrine strode to his washstand and rubbed soap into his face and neck, rinsing and then drying himself on a towel, trying to calm the desperate beating of his heart.
In the staircase he met his lord coming down, two men with him, his wife a few paces behind.
‘Ah, Sir Peregrine. Are you ready to eat your fill and beyond? Come. Let’s feast for Saint Giles.’
Leading his wife into the great hall, Baldwin was struck by its magnificence. It soared above, a massive room hung with flags and tapestries to show the importance of the lord who lived here. Even he, a man who had visited some of the greatest halls in Christendom, was struck by its splendour, a splendour enhanced by the rich clothing of the people within.
Entering from the screens passage, he was momentarily deafened: music played above him in the gallery and people were trying to chatter over it, creating a racket that made him wince. Then his wife gave his hand a little pressure and he became acclimatised.
A short time later Lord Hugh entered with Sir Peregrine and a sense of expectation filled the room as the lord walked slowly to his table and sat. Servants appeared, young squires and heralds with towels over their left arms and about their necks, carrying large cloths. As Lord Hugh sat, these men swiftly spread cloths over the table in front of him, first one over the edge facing the hall, then a second over the tabletop, smoothing them out carefully until not a wrinkle could be seen.
The guests took their seats, those who were unsure being directed by young squires, and then more cloths were brought in, these not so fine as that of the lord, and when all were seated Baldwin was pleased to find that he was given a good trencher of bread. He wasn’t keen on the modern fad for wooden platters. They didn’t soak up so much juice, and couldn’t be used to feed the poor. A napkin was placed at his side, and he pulled his spoon from his wallet ready to feed.
Now the salt was brought to the top table and placed directly before Lord Hugh, a massive cellar in the shape of a crouching dog made from cunningly fashioned silver. The carver opened the salt and delicately used his knife to spread a little on his lord’s trencher. Baldwin watched while Lord Hugh’s knife and bread were both kissed and wiped clean by his cupbearer to assay them, to prove that no poison had been spread on them, and then the cupbearer tasted the water before Lord Hugh washed his hands.
As soon as he was done the food was brought in.
This first course was not too fearsome. Five dishes of meat, five with birds, one of fish and several pastries. There was little here that was designed to cause anxiety, but still Baldwin, whose stomach was queasy in the presence of heavily spiced foods, peered at the offerings with anxiety, only to be overcome with relief. All the dishes appeared to have only roasted or boiled meats.
He ate with gusto. It felt like an age since his last meal, and he consumed thrushes smothered in cinnamon, some snipe and a slice or two of swan.
While he ate he gazed about him. He was seated against one wall, while on his right-hand side was the dais with Lord Hugh. Near Lord Hugh was Sir Peregrine, and Baldwin noticed that Simon was almost opposite. When he caught Baldwin’s eye, he raised his pot in a toast, his mouth filled, and slurped happily.
‘I think Simon will regret his drinking tomorrow,’ Jeanne said thinly.
‘He has never learned that the way to avoid a foul head is to avoid drinking too much,’ Baldwin agreed, sipping at his own drink again. After walking about the town he was desperately thirsty. ‘I have always been moderate.’
‘I would have expected him to associate the two by now: quarts of wine followed by a morning head that, if it were to fall off, would only be a blessed relief.’
‘Simon resolutely denies that the two are connected in any way. He believes always that it is the quality of the food that causes his hangovers. I have seen him consume ale, then wine, then mead, and when his head seemed to labour under the impact of sixteen hammers all together the next morning, he put the blame squarely onto a single bad egg that he ate.’
Jeanne chuckled. As they spoke the servants had darted about the room again, and now the first course was removed and the subtlety was brought in, a splendid ornament of whole marchpane, which the cook had managed to fashion into the image of a hind.
‘What is that?’ Jeanne asked.
‘If I remember my history correctly, St Giles was hit by an arrow from a king when the king was hunting a hind. He fired at her, but she took refuge with the saint and the arrow struck the saint instead. I think the cook has done his best to remember that event.’
Jeanne watched greedily as the hind was cut into pieces, and took hers with delight. She always had a very sweet tooth, and loved the almond flavour of the marchpane.
To her the sight of the next course was a pleasure. The same was not true for Baldwin. Servants brought in dishes filled with a rich mixture of pounded and minced, battered and coloured, beherbed and spiced foods. One concoction of blue and green pastes quartered in a large bowl gave him particular cause for concern and he found it difficult to draw his eyes away from it, emptying his wine with a gulp. A bottler refilled it.
Jeanne nudged him. ‘What is it?’ he demanded, taking another nervous gulp of wine.
‘Sir Peregrine seems hardly able to keep his eyes from you.’
‘Hmm? Maybe he has a sense of humour and expects me to explode,’ he grumbled.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. Even as she spoke a servant entered and ran to Sir Peregrine. He listened, his eyes on his trencher, and then nodded. The servant hurried across the room to Harlewin le Poter and whispered in his ear. While Jeanne watched, Harlewin rose, bowed to Sir Peregrine, walked to Lord Hugh, bowed again and shrugged expansively in apology.
‘My lord, I fear duty…’
Lord Hugh waved a courteous hand. ‘Of course, we must all be obedient to our responsibilities, mustn’t we?’
With another low bow, Harlewin turned and marched from the room, head high and proud.
Jeanne would have thought nothing of it, but then she glanced back at Sir Peregrine, and this time she saw he wasn’t looking at her husband. Following the line of his eyes, she saw he was staring at another man.
‘Yes?’ Baldwin asked, feeling in his mouth for a fishbone. He had hoped the fish pie would be safe from spices, but it had been filled with so much mace he couldn’t detect the fish except by the large quantities of bones.
‘Look.’
He saw John Sherman half rise, lick his lips, shoot a look at the high table, and make as if to get up. Sir Peregrine muttered to a servant and sent him to Sherman. Sherman wanted to leave, but he sat back with a bad grace, his attention fixed upon the door through which Harlewin had just left.