It was not that any of the stress and worry he carried had been relieved; he still felt it far too keenly. But his mind was eager to focus on something new.
Facing the chill of the morning, he went to the manor house in search of something to break his fast.
The main hall of the manor was alive with activity. Nearly a dozen of the Lockwood villagers stood near the blazing fire in the large hearth. They chatted about their upcoming day while greeting those who entered through the main door.
A few of them smiled at him as he entered, but it seemed that either no one knew his name or they were too nervous to approach a prince. Ian smiled as warmly as he could and looked around the rest of the room.
A smiling young woman he had not yet met walked into the room from what Ian assumed was the kitchen. She carried a large iron pot.
Ian stepped forward, instinctively wanting to help though she appeared quite strong enough to manage the task.
Before he could make good on his plan, however, she reached her destination—a long table near the kitchen doorway—and set the pot down. She lifted a ladle from it and stirred the contents vigorously. “Porridge is hot!” she yelled, raising her voice above the talking crowd. Then she stepped away, disappearing through the door back into the kitchen.
Ian, having made it to the far side of the table, watched as the villagers surged forward, grabbing wooden bowls from one end of the table and lining up to ladle themselves portions of food. The process was somehow both more chaotic and more orderly than anything he had seen at the castle.
Before Ian could round the table and take his place in the line, another woman came from the kitchen carrying a stack of bowls. Ian recognized this woman as Ilida, Robin’s steward. Robin had introduced her to Ian the previous afternoon.
After that introduction, the seemingly always stressed young woman had looked Ian up and down, complained about another mouth to feed, and said she had no extra time to cater to royalty. By the time she had finished talking, Ian looked around to find that Robin had left him. Contrary to her words, the steward had promptly found Ian a thick set of furs to sleep in.
“Good morn, Ilida,” Ian said, greeting the woman as she placed the bowls on the table. Feeling in the way, he stepped back when she quickly moved to the porridge pot where a youngboy had attempted to serve himself. In the process, he had somehow gotten more of the porridge on his hands and the table than into his bowl.
“Let me just get that for you,” Ilida said, taking the ladle from him and giving him another scoop. “Good morn to you as well, prince,” she said, grabbing the next bowl from the next person in line. “It goes more smoothly when someone serves it.”
The previous woman appeared again with another pot. After setting it down beside the first, she bustled back into the kitchen.
Seeing a need he could fill, Ian stepped forward to the new pot and picked up the ladle. He stirred the porridge for a moment before accepting an empty bowl from another villager. “And you waste less,” he said in response to Ilida’s comment.
“Exactly.” Ilida sent Ian a broad smile. The first he had seen from her.
“Does everyone eat here?” he asked. There were several cottages behind the manor, and he had seen more than a few people preparing food outside the day before.
“Only those who do not have their own place out back,” Ilida said. “And even then, some still do. But Robin brings home a new stray every few days, and we found it just works better for everyone if we use the largest kitchen to feed the most people.”
“That is similar to what the palace kitchen does every day,” Ian said. “Feeding countless people every day, from the councilors and visiting nobles to the palace servants and guards.”
“I wager you have a bigger kitchen,” Ilida said, scraping the bottom of her pot for the last scoop of porridge.
“I have yet to see the kitchen here, but I imagine this entire manor could fit into the one back at home,” Ian said.
“Do not tell Willa that,” Ilida said, lifting her pot and turning back to the kitchen. “She just might leave, and then where would I be?”
“I am no cook,” Ian said, “but if Willa leaves you, I will lend a hand wherever I am able.”
Ilida shook her head at his jest and disappeared behind the door to the kitchen.
Ian continued where he stood, filling the bowls of the last few people in line. One of these was Rigelt, who gave him a small nod in thanks as he took his bowl back outside, walking past the other tables that were now filled with seated Lockwood villagers.
Ian picked up a bowl for himself as he noticed Sol enter the great hall.
“Good morn, brother,” Sol said, his voice quiet and his face passive as he approached the table.
Ian found himself bristling slightly at the term of endearment from this man he mostly trusted but barely knew. “Good morn,” he responded. “Where is Meena?”
Sol picked up a bowl, and Ian reached out to take it from him. “She is not one to wake with the dawn,” Sol said. He kept a hold on his bowl, but reached out his other hand for the ladle from Ian.
Ian smiled. “Some things have not changed then.” He handed over the ladle.
Picking up his own full bowl, he looked at the overflowing tables that ran across the room. Ilida was right; this place could literally not hold another person. He took note of the rolled-up furs and stuff bags lined against the wall, evidence of the people who had slept in this room overnight.
