“You’re late,” Hargrave called out flatly as the chaplain appeared near the lord’s table. “The blessing of the food is about to be said.”
Iris realized in that moment Padraig Boyd’s strategy and bit the inside of her cheek in annoyance. He played a dangerous game, and Iris had unwittingly lent him the pawns.
“Then I’m nae ’tall late, am I?” Boyd challenged.
Father Kettering cleared his throat. “Let us pray.”
Hargrave grudgingly gained his feet.
The hall followed suit.
Padraig Boyd, without even a hint of triumph on his face, gave a shallow bow toward Hargrave and then strode toward the open table placed conspicuously along the wall nearest the corridor and standing apart from the other trestles, with only two chairs to its side. His servants dispersed at once to the common tables in the center, leaving Lucan standing alone.
Iris glanced again at Hargrave and saw the red in his cheeks deepen, even as he motioned to the chaplain.
“Heavenly Father, we thank Thee that in Thy great mercy…”
A long moment later, it seemed, the shuffling of feet and stools grew loud as the people once more sat, and servers began circulating about the chamber with the platters. Lucan now made his way toward the lord’s table and gave a bow.
“Good evening, Lord Hargrave. Where would you have me sit?”
“Ah, Sir Lucan,” Hargrave said, picking up his chalice. He spoke in a voice too low for most of those seated at the common tables to hear, but Iris understood each clipped word. “Since it is yet unclear to me what you hope to gain through this little aided rebellion in my home, I thought perhaps the choice would be better left up to you.” He motioned with the cup toward the empty chair at his side. “As always, there is a place for you at my table. Or”—here he paused pointedly—“there seems to be an excess of space available in the area reserved for our Scottish occupier. You may choose the location you think best serves you. Although, from all appearances, Master Boyd’s side might be a dangerous location to one’s person. Then again, perhaps he only stumbled and fell.” He took a sip.
Iris daren’t look up, but her heart pounded. Hargrave was calling on Lucan to declare a side, as if giving him one final opportunity to repent of what Hargrave must surely see as a betrayal. Should Lucan choose the seat at Hargrave’s side, he would be indebted to the man; if he chose to sit at Padraig Boyd’s table, it would be a clear signal that Lucan was determined to aid the Scotsman in his coup.
“My lord, you mistake my intent,” Lucan protested. “I am here only as an envoy to the king. My sole purpose is to ensure that his commands are heeded.”
Hargrave was silent for an awkward pair of moments while Lucan remained standing before him, pretending to decide over the dishes placed before him. “I mistake nothing, Lucan,” he said distractedly. “As I see it, you can carry out the king’s commands just as well from either table. It shouldn’t be so troublesome a choice. Choose, and stop disrupting the meal.”
Hargrave knew exactly what he was doing, Iris thought. She only hoped that Lucan did as well. She looked up at him through her lashes.
“Very well, my lord,” he said calmly, his face as composed as ever. “I thank you for your courtesy.” He gave a slight bow and then turned away from the table, and Iris could see all eyes in the hall watching him surreptitiously.
They had heard more than Iris had suspected.
Lucan walked to the nearest common table. “May I join you?” he asked the man seated next to the empty end of the bench.
The man’s eyes widened and he said nothing, only stood from his bench while staring at the knight. The others seated at the table quickly gained their feet.
“My thanks,” Lucan said, and sat as easily as if it were the high table in the king’s house. He reached inside his gambeson and withdrew a black silken kerchief, tossing it over his shoulder before helping himself to the pitcher in the center of the table.
Iris let a shaky exhalation pass through her nose, then her gaze was drawn reflexively to where Padraig Boyd sat alone.
He was staring at her openly again, and she felt her attention caught by his eyes just as suddenly and firmly as a skirt hem on a thorn bush. He was still in the same clothes, yes, but with his hair freshly trimmed and the napkin on his shoulder, his unique, solitary presence behind the table didn’t seem at all out of place. He seemed to belong there, with the stone wall behind him a perfect foil—a large man, a handsome man, a quiet man.
He frowned suddenly at her.
“Where’s the finger bowl?” he demanded to the chamber at large.
Iris winced.
Perhaps not a quiet man, after all.
Chapter 7
Padraig was glad to be back in his chamber after the evening meal. The hour of sitting on display alone at his table while his head pounded and all eyes in the hall constantly flicked in his direction had worn on him. Well, all eyes save Beryl’s. She looked as though she’d been carved from ivory, the way she sat so perfect and erect, her expression never deviating from its composed peace. Her hand lifted food to her mouth smoothly, rhythmically; Padraig fancied he could almost detect a pattern in her meal: food, food, food, napkin, cup.
Looking upon her was the only pleasure to be had at the long, awkward meal, even though the food had likely been quite good. He’d used all his concentration to hide his discomfort and strive to remember Beryl’s many rules for eating, and now he felt as though he’d been wrung out like an old rag and draped over a stone to dry.
He pushed open
