“’Tis naught,” Padraig scoffed, his ears heating.
Lucan muttered from the table without raising his head. “Someone dropped a bucket of stones on him. Don’t worry, he’s being fitted for a helm.”
“I see.” Beryl’s expression was solemn as she held his gaze for a long moment. He saw her chest rise and fall in a sigh before she resumed her practical interrogation. “Marta, have you much longer at themaster’s hair?”
“Just finishing up now, mistress.”
“Excellent.” She strode across the table and spoke quietly to two young men stacking wood near the hearth. When she returned across the floor, the men followed her, bearing a small table and the other chair.
They positioned the furniture before Padraig just as Marta whisked the cloth from aroundhis shoulders.
Beryl transferred the tray to the tabletop and then shook out a snowy linen. “I’ve brought your midday meal,”she announced.
“Good.” Padraig was starving. He reached for the domed cover.
“Ah,” she said sharply, with asideways look.
Padraig froze, his hand hovering over the filigreed handle. “Thank you?”
“This,” she said, ignoring his thanks and draping the linen over her palm with the delicate, pinched fingers of her other hand,“is anapkin.”
Padraig didn’t wish to frown at the lass, but…“I ken what a napkin is.”
She stepped around the table toward him, and in a moment Padraig was enveloped by her light, floral scent. “When you sit down to dine, you place it here”—she held it lightly against his shoulder, where Lucan had worn his that morning—“or here.” Now she draped it over his left forearm. Padraig’s skin broke out in gooseflesh, and he was glad of his sleeves, which hid hereffect on him.
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 reachedout 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 yournapkin, Master Boyd.”
Padraig complied, his lips set togetherfirmly.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.
