The feast commenced in earnest with the appearance of the first of scores of platters piled high with roast meat and others with bread and bowls of stewed vegetables. Servants appeared with jars and began filling goblets and chalices with wine.
“I do not believe we have met,” said the baroness, raising a goblet to be filled. In her gown of glistening silver samite, she seemed a creature carved of ice; her smile was just as cold.
“I am Baroness Agnes.”
“Peace and joy to you, my lady. I am called Mérian.”
The woman’s gaze sharpened to unnerving severity. “King Cadwgan’s daughter, yes, of course. I am glad you and your family could join us today. Are you enjoying your stay?”
“Oh, yes, baroness, very much.”
“This cannot be your first visit to England, I think?”
“But it is,” answered Mérian. “I have never been to Hereford before. I have never been south of the March.”
“I hope you find it agreeable?” The baroness awaited her answer, regarding her with keen, almost malicious intensity.
“Wonderfully so,” replied Mérian, growing increasingly uncomfortable under the woman’s unrelenting scrutiny.
“Bon,” answered the baroness. She seemed suddenly to lose interest in the young woman. “That is splendid.”
Two kitchen servants arrived with a trencher of roast meat just then and placed it on the table before the baron. Another servant appeared with shallow wooden bowls which he set before each guest. The men at the table drew the knives from their belts and began stabbing into the meat. The women waited patiently until a servant brought knives to those who did not already have them.
More trenchers were brought to the table, and still more, as well as platters of bread and tureens of steaming buttered greens and dishes that Mérian had never seen before. “What is this?” she wondered aloud, regarding what appeared to be a compote of dried apples, honey, almonds, eggs, and milk, baked and served bubbling in a pottery crock. “It is called a muse,” Lady Agnes informed her without turning her head.
“Equally good with apricots, peaches, or pears.”
Whatever apricots or peaches might be, Mérian did not know, but guessed they were more or less like apples. Also arriving on the board were plates of steamed fish and something called frose, which turned out to be pounded pork and beef cooked with eggs . . . and several more dishes the contents of which Mérian could only guess. Delighted at the extraordinary variety before her, she determined to try them all before the night was over.
As for the baroness, sitting straight as a lance shaft beside her, she took a bite of meat, chewed it thoughtfully, and swallowed. She tore a bit of bread from a loaf and sopped it in the meat sauce, ate it, and then, dabbing her mouth politely with the back of her hand, rose from her place. “I hope we can speak together again before you leave,” she said to Mérian.
“Now I must beg your pardon, for I am still very tired from my travels. I will wish you bonsoir.”
The baroness offered her husband a brisk smile and whispered something into his ear as she stepped from the table.
Her sudden absence left a void at Mérian’s right hand, and the baron was deep in conversation with her father, so she turned to the guest on her left, a young man a year or two older than her brother. “You are a stranger, I think,” he said, watching her from the corner of his eye.
“Verily,” she replied.
“So are we both,” he said, and Mérian noticed his eyes were the colour of the sea in deep winter. His features were fine— almost feminine, except for his jaw, which was wide and angular. His lips curled up at the corners when he spoke. “I have come from Rainault. Do you know where that is?”
“I confess I do not,” answered Mérian, remembering her mother’s caution and trying to discourage him with an indifferent tone.
“It is across the narrows in Normandie,” he said, “but my family is not Norman.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “We are Angevin.” A flicker of pride touched this simple affirmation. “An ancient and noble family.”