brought him a trencher laden with a generous slice of humble pie.
“Fitting.” He wondered if his wife had ordered it especially for him.
But the crusty pastry was light and flaky. When he cut it open, the rich mixture of deer heart, liver, and brains smelled savory enough to make his mouth water. There was even a healthy portion of spicy frumenty on the side.
“Thank ye,” he said to the serving girl before he tucked in. “Ye’re Dorcas, are ye not?”
“Aye, milord.” The girl dropped a curtsey. With eyes as pale as rainwater, she was still comely in a freckle-nosed, round-cheeked sort of way. “I’m ever so honored ye remember me.”
He narrowed his gaze at her, trying to recall exactly where he’d run across her in the keep. It seemed that Katherine had been gushing about the girl’s skills once and wondering if they might coax her away from Glengarry Castle. “Ye dinna usually serve in the hall.”
“Nay, I tend Lady Margaret and her children mostly.”
That explained it. When Katherine was bearing the first time, she had wanted to send for Dorcas to come serve in their nursery. William convinced her to wait till the child was born before bringing on a nursemaid. Then in the end, there was no need. He shoved away the memory of that small coffin.
Reliving the past never changed it.
“But they wanted extra hands in the hall this night, and to be honest, I’m that grateful to be spending Christmas with those who can cut their own meat for a change,” Dorcas nattered on. “Shall I pull an ale for ye or would ye prefer a wee dram?”
Before William could answer, Ranulf MacNaught climbed atop a table and shouted for quiet.
“As ye all know, we’ve crowned our Laird of Misrule. As befits Christmastide royalty, he’s been given a scepter by Lord Badenoch.” Ranulf cast a grudging nod in Will’s direction. “But far be it from a MacNaught to be outdone by a Douglas, so me and the lads have fashioned a throne for our Abbot of Unreason. Bring it in!”
Four of MacNaught’s boon companions plodded into the great room from the solar, chanting a bastardized hymn in praise of Laird Nab as they came. The men held a chair fashioned from stag antlers and draped with purple velvet hoisted high above their heads. Laughing and stumbling, the mock procession wobbled toward the dais. They positioned the new throne with overblown ceremony next to the real Laird of Glengarry’s heavy chair.
Kat’s father would have laughed if anyone had called his seat a throne. It was simply a sturdy place from which he meted out justice and issued orders.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are, Laird Nab, and take your rightful place,” Ranulf singsonged.
Nab peeped from one of the shallow alcoves that notched the hall. The fool seemed uncomfortable in large crowds at the best of times. Now, from clear across the room, William saw that there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.
After a chorus of encouragement from the assembled revelers, Nab shuffled up to stand next to MacNaught and squinted at the antler-throne. “It doesna look verra comfortable, Ranulf, what with the points and all.”
“A position of power isna intended to be comfortable, your wee lordship. But the velvet will cushion your backside well enough if that’s what troubles ye. Go on. Take your throne, Nab.”
“Laird Nab,” the fool corrected. “I’m Laird Nab. Ye all said so.”
“So be it. Laird Nab. Aye, an’ it please ye, your lordship,” Ranulf said with a sarcastic bow, “move your arse.”
He gave Nab a shove and the fool stumbled up the rush-strewn steps leading to the dais. When his left foot reached the top step, a snare pulled taut around his ankle. Suddenly Nab was jerked to the ground, dragged along the steps by a rope that had been hidden beneath the rushes, and finally yanked into the air. Suspended by a loop of hemp, he bounced helplessly, dangling from a hook bolted to the ceiling. Nab tried to free his foot, but kept
“Fitting.” He wondered if his wife had ordered it especially for him.
But the crusty pastry was light and flaky. When he cut it open, the rich mixture of deer heart, liver, and brains smelled savory enough to make his mouth water. There was even a healthy portion of spicy frumenty on the side.
“Thank ye,” he said to the serving girl before he tucked in. “Ye’re Dorcas, are ye not?”
“Aye, milord.” The girl dropped a curtsey. With eyes as pale as rainwater, she was still comely in a freckle-nosed, round-cheeked sort of way. “I’m ever so honored ye remember me.”
He narrowed his gaze at her, trying to recall exactly where he’d run across her in the keep. It seemed that Katherine had been gushing about the girl’s skills once and wondering if they might coax her away from Glengarry Castle. “Ye dinna usually serve in the hall.”
“Nay, I tend Lady Margaret and her children mostly.”
That explained it. When Katherine was bearing the first time, she had wanted to send for Dorcas to come serve in their nursery. William convinced her to wait till the child was born before bringing on a nursemaid. Then in the end, there was no need. He shoved away the memory of that small coffin.
Reliving the past never changed it.
“But they wanted extra hands in the hall this night, and to be honest, I’m that grateful to be spending Christmas with those who can cut their own meat for a change,” Dorcas nattered on. “Shall I pull an ale for ye or would ye prefer a wee dram?”
Before William could answer, Ranulf MacNaught climbed atop a table and shouted for quiet.
“As ye all know, we’ve crowned our Laird of Misrule. As befits Christmastide royalty, he’s been given a scepter by Lord Badenoch.” Ranulf cast a grudging nod in Will’s direction. “But far be it from a MacNaught to be outdone by a Douglas, so me and the lads have fashioned a throne for our Abbot of Unreason. Bring it in!”
Four of MacNaught’s boon companions plodded into the great room from the solar, chanting a bastardized hymn in praise of Laird Nab as they came. The men held a chair fashioned from stag antlers and draped with purple velvet hoisted high above their heads. Laughing and stumbling, the mock procession wobbled toward the dais. They positioned the new throne with overblown ceremony next to the real Laird of Glengarry’s heavy chair.
Kat’s father would have laughed if anyone had called his seat a throne. It was simply a sturdy place from which he meted out justice and issued orders.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are, Laird Nab, and take your rightful place,” Ranulf singsonged.
Nab peeped from one of the shallow alcoves that notched the hall. The fool seemed uncomfortable in large crowds at the best of times. Now, from clear across the room, William saw that there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.
After a chorus of encouragement from the assembled revelers, Nab shuffled up to stand next to MacNaught and squinted at the antler-throne. “It doesna look verra comfortable, Ranulf, what with the points and all.”
“A position of power isna intended to be comfortable, your wee lordship. But the velvet will cushion your backside well enough if that’s what troubles ye. Go on. Take your throne, Nab.”
“Laird Nab,” the fool corrected. “I’m Laird Nab. Ye all said so.”
“So be it. Laird Nab. Aye, an’ it please ye, your lordship,” Ranulf said with a sarcastic bow, “move your arse.”
He gave Nab a shove and the fool stumbled up the rush-strewn steps leading to the dais. When his left foot reached the top step, a snare pulled taut around his ankle. Suddenly Nab was jerked to the ground, dragged along the steps by a rope that had been hidden beneath the rushes, and finally yanked into the air. Suspended by a loop of hemp, he bounced helplessly, dangling from a hook bolted to the ceiling. Nab tried to free his foot, but kept
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