He took a scoop of pudding and put it on his trencher. The serving lad refilled his goblet as he did so. Palmer helped himself to another mouthful of wine, then tried some of the pudding. Sweet, smooth, creamy, with flavors he didn’t even recognize.
“An excellent end to an excellent meal,” said Fitzurse, helping himself. He raised his eyebrows as he tasted it. “You have the finest of saffron in there, de Morville.”
The finest of saffron. Palmer noted it to himself. He would have to have this in his own dishes when he had his own great hall. He scooped another mouthful and peered at the brightly colored contents of his spoon to see what it looked like.
Fitzurse cleared his throat. “The yellow layer, Palmer. The taste, man. The scent.”
Now they all roared their laughter at Palmer. Heat rose in his face.
“Fire too hot for you, boy?” De Tracy grinned at him, face shiny with drink.
Palmer showed the knight his middle finger and took another deep draught of wine. He wasn’t bothered at the ribbing. Once he had his fortune, he’d employ flocks of servants, same as de Morville. They’d know all about the best herbs. He drank again. The best wine.
“Speaking of fires,” said Fitzurse, “I must compliment you on a magnificent hearth, de Morville. The stone is very fine.”
Palmer looked at the stone fireplace set into the wall halfway down the great room. A man could stand up in it, save for the huge logs that burned in it and sent out waves of heat that warmed the vast space of the hall. He’d have one of those too.
“Is that your motto?” continued Fitzurse. “’Ipsa quidem pretium virtus sibi.’ — Virtue is indeed its own reward?”
Palmer squinted down the hall, sight blurry from wine. There were letters carved in the mantel, but he couldn’t read them in a thousand years. He’d have to pay a clerk too.
“Not mine.” De Morville belched. “Brought it back from one of my campaigns. Some monastery we burnt down in Castile.”
Fitzurse nodded. “Well collected.”
Palmer drained his beaker again. He wouldn’t want an old one, especially not with writing on it. And definitely not church writing. He thought of that nun, that Theodosia, and how she’d nearly foiled him. Well, she hadn’t. She was off in de Morville’s dungeon now, and good riddance. No, he’d buy a new one, have it done specially. He couldn’t wait.
“Clear this.” De Morville didn’t bother to turn round to address the servers who waited for orders, backs to the wall, arms folded behind them.
The men reacted as one to their lord’s demand and set to clearing the dishes and spoons scattered across the stained white linen tablecloth.
“Refill all these goblets before you go,” said de Morville to the sewer, “and leave the jugs of drink.”
The two grooms left for the kitchens with stacked plates and dishes. The sewer topped up every drink as ordered, folded the cloth, and gathered it into his arms.
“Now get out. All of you,” said de Morville. “I’ll call if we need anything.”
“Yes, my lord.” The man gave a low bow, and the minstrels drew their tune to a quick, final piping note. They clattered from the gallery as the sewer hurried away to the kitchens.
“Gentlemen, a toast.” Fitzurse rose from his seat, full pewter goblet in hand. “Raise your glasses to our success in the first stage of our mission.”
“I’ll drink to that.” De Morville hit his vessel against Fitzurse’s.
“I’ll drink to owt,” said de Tracy.
A silent le Bret grasped his drink to join the toast, his goblet like a youngling’s in his huge hand.
Palmer raised his own goblet and joined in, adding to the warm fuzziness of the numberless glassfuls he’d drunk.
Fitzurse sat down again. “You have all played a valiant part in our success so far. I’m sure you’ll be tested more before we’re done.”
A rumble of agreement came from the other knights.
“And when will we be done?” said Palmer.
“When I say so,” said Fitzurse with a thin smile.
“And what does our king say?”
The company went silent, the crackle from the fire the only sound.
“I beg your pardon?” said Fitzurse.
“My apologies, my lord. I meant only, do we know what His Grace has said about Archbishop Becket? We were supposed to arrest him, now he’s dead, and instead we have this nun — ”
“My, my, Sir Palmer is a curious soul.” Fitzurse exchanged glances with de Morville. He looked again at Palmer. “Yes, Becket is dead, devil take him for the traitor he was. The anchoress, who is also involved in treachery, is safely locked away.” His voice hardened. “Now, are you impertinent enough to further question me and my actions, or have you finished?”