She straightened and looked at him expectantly.
Padraig reached out and took the napkin and attempted to jauntily toss it over his shoulder as he’d remembered the knight doing. The thing went flying behind him entirely and landed on the floor.
Beryl retrieved it and offered it to him once more, without a word or even a look of reproach.
Padraig kept firm hold of the corner this time, and although he didn’t think the cloth was positioned so artfully, Beryl obviously approved for she moved closer to the table and picked up a brass bowl filled with what appeared to be water.
“Depending on the household at which you are dining, you may be considered equal in status to the host or beneath him.”
Padraig felt a frown coming on, but he didn’t argue with her, wishing to hear her continue to speak in her clipped, accented voice.
“If you are a guest of a greater lord, you will cleanse your hands upon entering the hall, before you are seated,” she said. “However, in your own chamber, you are the master, and so a washing basin will be brought to you.” She stepped fully to his side and offered the bowl.
Padraig reached out to take it.
Beryl pulled it away. “Ah. You dip your fingers into it.” She held it forth once more.
Padraig wiggled his fingers in the water and then lifted them out.
“Now, dry them.”
He moved to wipe his hands on his pants.
“With your napkin, Master Boyd.”
Padraig complied, his lips set together firmly. Idiot.
“Very good.” Beryl set the bowl aside and moved around the table to seat herself in the chair opposite Padraig. She placed a napkin over her arm and then lifted the dome of the tray.
There was a modest feast laid before him: a wide dish of pottage, a round of bread, a small bowl of dried apples and walnuts, and boiled eggs. It looked and smelled delicious.
But Padraig did not reach for anything, instead raising his gaze to Beryl, who watched him closely. A small smile played about her lips—she was pleased with his caution.
“Those seated shall rise as the host enters, and then again when the host or his chamberlain or priest say grace,” Beryl said, and looked about the chamber, her lips parted as if to call for assistance.
“In this chamber,” Padraig reminded her, “I am the master. And so should it nae be me what says the grace?”
Beryl looked unconvinced for only a moment; then she steeled her expression once more and rose from her seat.
Padraig stood and cleared his throat. “Thanks be to Thee, O Lord Jesus Christ, for all the blessings Thou hast given us; for all the sufferings and shame Thou didst endure for us. Have mercy upon us, O most merciful Redeemer, that we may know these Thy blessings and use them to Thine glory. For Thine own sake, amen.”
“Amen,” Beryl said, and her eyes held clear pleasure.
“I might nae be a fancy lord,” Padraig advised her as he sat, “but I’m nae savage. Me da said the grace over every meal.” He gave a proud nod.
Beryl seemed to float gracefully down to her seat while her lips curved. “A fine grace it was, Master Boyd. Perhaps you will yet surprise the both of us with things your father has taught you.”
Padraig was so fascinated by her refined beauty that he spoke without thinking. “If it will make you smile, I’ll resolve to surprise you each day.”
Beryl blinked, and her expression softened for only a moment before she was back to business. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, we must study the use of the eating knife. Helm or nay, you will be expected to take meals in the great hall with the rest of the hold, starting tonight.”
* * * *
Iris stood, along with the rest of the hold, as Lady Hargrave entered the hall on her husband’s arm. She wondered briefly at the seat left empty to the right of the lord’s before she sat and felt the fluttering brush of Caris’s hand on her sleeve. She looked up.
“How do you fare, my dear?” the lady whispered discreetly. Her eyes were keen, full of compassion.
Iris smiled. “I am well, my lady.”
“That savage has not overworked you, has he?” she pressed, although she had by all accounts turned her attention to arranging her napkin. “I shall put a halt to it at once, if so, and I care not for what he should tell the king. You look tired.”
Iris took her cue from the woman, draping her own napkin over her arm. “Nothing so taxing beyond a lesson of manners, milady.” She tried not to think about the way Padraig Boyd had seemed to watch her every move, much in the same way that Satin was keen on prey in the shadows. But the look in his eyes hadn’t been malicious—only…fascinated, perhaps. It had made Iris feel self-conscious and more than a little flattered. “Although I’ll admit, it has been a long day.”
“Like teaching a hound to recite, I should imagine,” Lady Caris breathed, her mouth barely moving as the seated crowd stirred. “We’ll talk later.”
Padraig Boyd stood framed in the corridor entrance, Lucan at his side. It seemed as though the motley company of servants grudgingly given into his service were gathered in the passage at his back. Lucan made a motion as if to step into the hall, but the slightest raising of Boyd’s hand stopped him. Everyone waited.
Iris looked out of the corner of her eye at Hargrave, who seemed to be enjoying the palpable indecision of those seated between him and the Scot.
Should they rise as he entered? Padraig Boyd, remembering his earlier lesson with
