'I have spoken to Guthorm Wry-Neck,' Lord Brusi was saying as Murdo drifted near, 'and he said the ship will leave Kirkjuvagr the day after the Feast of Saint James, God willing.'

'That soon?' His father sounded surprised. 'It cannot take so long to reach Lundein.'

Brusi only nodded. 'That is what he said.'

'But the harvest will not be finished,' Ranulf pointed out.

'Aye,' Brusi agreed. 'There is no help for it, I fear. We must reach Rouen by mid-August and no later if we are to travel with the king's men.'

'Yes, yes, I see that,' Lord Ranulf agreed. 'Still, I had not thought we would be leaving so soon.'

Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of Bishop Adalbert, who called his guests to table-the women to tables on the right, and men to the left. In the eager, but not undignified, rush which ensued, Murdo found himself squeezed onto a bench between two merchantmen of more than ample girth. The one on his left eyed him disapprovingly-as if he feared that Murdo's presence might turn feast into fast; but the man on the right winked at him and smiled. 'Going to Jerusalem are you, boy?'

'I am not, sir,' replied Murdo in a tone that dared his listener to pursue the matter further.

'Ah,' the merchant nodded sagely, and Murdo could not tell whether he thought this a good thing or not. 'I am Gundrun,' he said, 'and I give you good greeting, young man.'

'God be good to you, sir,' replied Murdo; he gave his name, and pointed out his father and brothers sitting a few places further down the bench, and identified them to his listener.

The merchant on the left took this in with a heavy grunt, whereupon Gundrun said, 'Do not mind him, Murdo Ranulfson; he is always out of temper-is that not so, Dufnas? Never more so than on a feast-day following mass.' The man on the left grunted again and turned his surly attention elsewhere.

A monk appeared just then, carrying a tall stack of round, flat loaves of bread. He passed along the bench, placing a loaf before each guest. 'Here now,' said Gundrun, 'the food 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 scurried after 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.

'Good 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 colour, 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. Dipping the 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, savouring the rich intermingling of unusual flavours. 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 him, her expression at once shrewd and thoughtful. She was watching him and he had caught her; but she did not look away, nor did her expression change. She continued staring at him, until two monks carrying a cauldron passed between them and removed her from his sight-but not before Murdo had seen, for the second time that day, the secret smile playing on those sly lips.

Distracted and confused, Murdo addressed himself once more to his meal and his companions. Gundrun proved himself not only an amiable table companion, but a veritable fountain of knowledge. He had travelled widely; his trade took him throughout the north and into Gaul. Once, he had even made a pilgrimage to Rome. Thus, when Murdo asked him where Rouen might be, the older man replied, 'Why, it is in Normandy, if I am not mistaken.'

'Who is king there?' wondered Murdo.

'That would be William Rufus, King of England,' Gundrun told him. 'Are you thinking of joining the pilgrimage after all?'

'No,' Murdo confessed. 'I heard my father talking about it. They are to go to Normandy and travel with the king's men.'

'Ah, no doubt you mean William's son, Duke Robert of Normandy,' corrected the merchant gently. 'It seems he is to lead the Normans and English to Jerusalem-along with some others, of course. There are very many knights and men-at-arms travelling together, you see. At least, that is what I have heard.'

This brought a snarl of disapproval from Dufnas, sitting next to Murdo, Gundrun replied, 'What is it to you, my friend, whether the Franks send a blind dog to lead the pilgrims to Jerusalem? You have no intention of going in any event.'

'Foolish waste,' Dumas declared. Then, having found his voice, added, 'I would not set foot in that God-forsaken land for all the gold in Rome.'

Thus delivering himself of this sentiment, Dufnas turned once more to his neglected meal; seizing a pheasant, he broke it in two between his fists-as if to show what he thought of the pilgrimage-and then bit deeply into the half in his right hand.