“Come to the table, my lord.” Bethia had shuffled back into the hall with another old lady. “Mab has done her best but ’twas short notice,” she complained.
“Your lord sent ahead to you this morning,” Cicely said sharply. “You had plenty of time to prepare a decent meal for him.” Cicely seated herself at the high board next to the laird. “Where is a man to serve?” she demanded to know.
“Can you not help yourselves?” Bethia asked. “There is not so much upon the table that you need to be aided.”
Cicely looked at the table. There was a small, cold joint of some animal, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese. She shook her head despairingly. “I will serve you, my lord,” she told him, reaching forthe bread. When she began to slice it she discovered it was stale and crumbled beneath the knife. The cheese on closer inspection showed a spot of white mold, and the joint had the distinct unpleasant odor of rot about it. “This will not do,” Cicely said angrily, standing up and shoving the food from the high board. The dish holding the joint shattered noisily upon the stone floor of the hall.
“Then you’ll go hungry!” Bethia said, equally angry.
“There is no fresh bread baked? No cheese without mold?” Cicely demanded. The dogs in the hall had come to sniff at the joint on the floor. “Look, even the dogs refuse that piece of meat!” Cicely said, pointing as the three hounds walked away from it. She turned to the laird. “There is no excuse for this, my lord! None!”
“I agree,” he said quietly. “Now, what will you do about it, ladyfaire?”
Cicely’s first instinct was to tell him that he was the master in this place, but instead she stepped down from the high board. Her gaze went past Bethia to Mab. “Take me to the kitchens, woman. What is your name?”
“Mab, my lady,” came the reply. “If you will follow me, please.” She led the younger woman from the hall and down a flight of stone steps.
The kitchen was of a goodly size. There was a large oak table opposite a big hearth where a fire was burning. A large pot hung over the fire. A delicious fragrance was coming from it.
Cicely looked in and saw a potage with vegetables and chunks of meat bubbling away. “Have you any trenchers, Mab?” she asked.
Mab shook her head in the negative. “With no one here I do not bake daily,” she said apologetically. “But I have wooden bowls to put the stew into, my lady.”
“Why did you not serve it?” Cicely wanted to know. “It smells wonderful.”
“Bethia said bread, a joint, and cheese would do,” Mab replied.
“A hot meal after a long ride would have been preferable,” Cicely noted. “Is there any other cheese?”
“I have a small wheel in the pantry,” Mab answered. “Shall I bring it with the stew, my lady?” And she curtsied.
Cicely smiled slightly, and nodded. Then she turned to Bethia. “Clean up the mess you caused to be made before the high board,” she said. Then she walked back upstairs to rejoin the laird. Oh, yes, there was much to be done here to put everything right. Bethia would have to go, and new servants brought in to serve the laird.
“Haughty bitch!” Bethia said angrily.
“You had best watch your tongue,” Mab warned. “This is the girl he has talked about for weeks. He means to wed her, and she will be mistress here.”
“She says she won’t have him,” Bethia said smugly.
Mab laughed. “Ha! More fool you if you believe that,” she said. “The laird means to make her his wife, and believe me, in the end he will, Bethia. Do not make an enemy of she who will soon be our mistress.”
“I’ll not serve the English bitch,” Bethia said angrily.
“Then you’ll end up back in the village, and your husband—who prefers you here so he can live in peace with his old mother—will beat you for losing your place,” Mab told the angry woman. “Frankly I’ll be happy to see the back of you, Bethia Douglas.”
“The laird needs me,” Bethia said. “Who else can care for his house?”
“The laird needs a wife more than he needs you,” Mab said with a toothless grin. “He’ll win over the lass of his heart. I’ll wager you’ll be back with your man in a day or two.” She cackled as she filled two wooden bowls with stew, took the small wheel of cheese from the pantry, and ascended the stairs back to the hall.
The laird thanked her as she set the bowls neatly before him and his guest. His eyebrow rose just slightly as she put the cheese upon the cutting board and curtsied. “Forgive me, my lord, for not serving you the potage, but Bethia said the other was good enough.”
Ian Douglas dipped his spoon into the bowl and brought it to his lips. Swallowing it down, he smiled broadly. “You may be an old hag, Mab, but by the rood no one can cook as well as you can. ’Tis delicious!”
“Indeed it is,” Cicely agreed. “Thank you, Mab. I hope you will always be here to cook for your master. But from now on you must live by your own rule. No one should tell you how to cook or what to serve but the laird. ’Tis your kitchen, after all.”
“And I give you free rein for now to do as you please,” the laird told the woman.
“Thank you, my lord!” Mab bobbed another curtsy. Then she said, “Would it be possible for me to have some help in my kitchen, my lord? I have been alone for months now, and I am, as you have observed, not as young as I once was.”
