She watched with sharp eyes the setting of the table.It was a Friday's meal and the guest was a monk, so it followed a fashion, but in that house of wealth, which had links with the ends of the earth, the monotony was cunningly varied.There were oysters from the Boulogne coast, and lampreys from the Loire, and pickled salmon from England.There was a dish of liver dressed with rice and herbs in the manner of the Turk, for liver, though contained in flesh, was not reckoned as flesh by liberal churchmen.There was a roast goose from the shore marshes, that barnacle bird which pious epicures classed as shell-fish and thought fit for fast days.A silver basket held a store of thin toasted rye-cakes, and by the monk's hand stood a flagon of that drink most dear to holy palates, the rich syrupy hippocras.
The woman looked on the table with approval, for her house had always prided itself upon its good fare.The Cluniac's urbane composure was stirred to enthusiasm.He said a Confiteor tibi Domine, rolling the words on his tongue as if in anticipation of the solider mouthfuls awaiting him.
The keen weather had whetted his appetite and he thanked God that his northern peregrinations had brought him to a house where the Church was thus honoured.He had liked the cavalier treatment of the lean parish priest, a sour dog who brought his calling into disfavour with the rich and godly.He tucked back his sleeves, adjusted the linen napkin comfortably about his neck, and fell to with a will.He raised his first glass of hippocras and gave thanks to his hostess.A true mother in Israel!
She was looking at him with favour.He was the breed of monk that she liked, suave, well-mannered, observant of men and cities.Already he had told her entertaining matter about the French King's court, and the new Burgrave of Ghent, and the escapades of Count Baldwin.He had lived much among gentlefolk and kept his ears open....She felt stronger and cheerfuller than she had been for days.That rat-hunt had warmed her blood.