Page 77 of The Forest Bride
“I sent a rider to fetch them back. What do you need?”
“Lift that sack of oats, if you will, and that small keg of butter and carry them to the worktable. And bring some salt, please. I can make oatcakes if you can light the griddle. Do we have bacon? Aye, good! I see apples saved from fall, and if there is honey and perhaps dried berries and walnuts, we shall have something good prepared.”
“Thank you,” Bran said. “I can burn the bacon with the best of them, but my oatcakes are like horseshoes.”
She laughed, recognizing the truth. “By the time Effie arrives, the oatcakes will be coming off the griddle.”
A soldier came to the door. “Bran, sir, Lennox wants you. They see who is on the way now. Sir Constantine Murray, sir, and others. Clergy and soldiers.”
“Best make as many cakes as you can, my lady,” Bran said.
Effie arrived justas Margaret stacked a second batch of hot oatcakes on a platter and covered it with a cloth, then turned to mix melted butter into a bowl of ground oats, adding salt, a little water.
“Let me knead it,” Effie said, taking the bowl. “What smells so good?”
“Chopped apples simmering in the kettle with honey, dried berries, butter. I found a little bit of precious cinnamon, and added some uisge beatha. It will stir up to a nice thickness. Also rashers of bacon over there on those griddles. Keeping the hounds out of the kitchen has been the real chore,” Margaret laughed.
“I did not know you could cook or do such work, my lady,” Effie said. “You offered, but I turned you down, thinking oh, she is just being kind.”
“I learned a good deal of cooking and such in the convent,” Margaret said.
“Convent! Were you educated there?”
“I was educated by nuns earlier, but later I spent more than three years in a convent recuperating from a serious illness. My mother was with me some of that time, but she did not survive the illness,” she added low. “I stayed on for a while after that.”
“Did you think to become a religious? I cannot see it, to be honest.”
“I thought about it, but it was not for me. I was there—after what happened with Duncan. I was not sure what I wanted then.”
“I understand, I do. Look there, I brought fresh cream and butter. I could make a soup, but with all this, it is not needed tonight. You did well. I had roasted the ptarmigan and other birds from the hawking day, and I can make a stew of those tomorrow. Oh, Duncan asked me to send you up to the hall. He mentioned it when I arrived, but I all but forgot.”
“Now?”
“Aye, go on. I can see to the rest of this. They are in the great hall.”
Wiping her hands on a cloth, Margaret ran for the steps, wondering why Duncan would ask for her. Sir Constantine was a sheriff’s deputy, but why would he come to Brechlinn now? A thought struck her like a blow. Had the Stirlingshire sheriff sent Sir Constantine with charges for her—for the young archer in Duncan’s custody? Could he do that even if the justiciar had decided not to pursue charges?
Worried, she went up the steps, down a corridor, and along another to near the hall. Pausing, she pushed open the door. Her breath came fast, a twist of uncertainty.
The great hall was large and dim, though flickering flames in the central fire basket added light. The warm glow reflected on walls hung with shields and swords, touched tall shuttered windows and ceiling rafters, brightened the rushes on the planked floor. A scarred trestle table held ceramic jugs, cups of Venetian glass glittering with dark wine, and a scattering of parchment pages. A tiny mouse scurried by with a bit of cheese. Skirting it, she went forward.
Duncan stood with others by the table. He glanced up and beckoned her to his side even as he spoke with others. Beside him was Sir Constantine—she remembered the tall man with honey-colored hair who had been with Duncan at the ayre court. He smiled to acknowledge her. Yet the last time he had seen her, she had been dressed as a lad. Knowing he was a good friend of Duncan and Lennox, she wondered if they had already told him who that lad truly was, and that she was still at Brechlinn.
Beside Murray stood Lennox. She did not recognize the others—four knights in chainmail who murmured together, looking at elaborate maps opened up on the table. Perhaps these were men who served Constantine and the sheriffdom. Thenshe noticed two clergymen standing with Malcolm Lennox. One was a monk in drab brown with a shaved tonsure, who handed papers to the other cleric.
He was an older man with a silvery tonsure, wearing a dark robe cinched with a rope belt that was studded with gleaming stones above tassels. A dark capelet draped over his shoulders and a silver cross on a long chain distinguished him from the simple monk in order and status. A bishop, she thought.
She was especially surprised to be summoned to this company. A bishop visiting Brechlinn was a true puzzle. Could he be one of the irresponsible priests? That thought astonished her.
A few others stood in the shadows away from the table. Someone slipped between the soldiers to reach toward the table and grab a goblet of wine. Duncan reached out to neatly remove the cup from that hand with an amused look. Then Margaret noticed the lanky boy whose blond curls gleamed in the amber firelight. She gasped. He looked up.
“Meg!” Andrew Murray called, and ran toward her.
Duncan cradled agoblet of wine in his hands and watched the others, glad for a chance to sit back, listen, observe. Maps and documents had been set away, and now the platters and bowls of food were nearly empty after all had enjoyed thick bacon, buttery oatcakes, cheeses, and a tasty dish of spiced apples. Learning that Lady Margaret had done much of the cooking, he smiled, proud, pleased, not surprised at all that she had such abilities. He glanced toward her again.
Across the table, she sat with Andrew Murray, heads together as they murmured. They had been glad and relieved to find one another, and Margaret had been astonished to learn that Sir Constantine Murray was Andrew’s uncle.
Duncan leaned toward Con Murray now. “How did you come across your nephew after we left?”
