Arundal rose. “I’ll send my messenger back now, and call for those fifty.” He threw Marcus a sarcastic smile. “If the King gave you such a heavy duty, you must be his new favorite, Marcus. You get to lead men against thieves instead of the French, and guard these hills instead of the realm. He gives you a traitor’s daughter as a bride, and all of this”—his gaze and arm mockingly swept the crude hall—“as a dowry. Then a girl escapes your hold and you are left with the King’s own whore in her place. The enhancement of Anglesmore’s honor is impressive. I envy you your place in Edward’s heart.”

Dinner was delayed that day.

Addis rode out as he intended, so Marcus sat at the high table with Hubert and Arundal. Some knights filled a few tables, but the manor folk had not come.

Time slid past. Hubert kept glancing to the doorway expectantly, waiting for signs of the meal.

“Does a man have to hunt and cook his own boar in order to eat in this hellhole?” Arundal groused.

Flushing, Hubert sent one of his squires to the kitchen to investigate. The boy returned to report that the meal was cooked, but the servants could not bring it yet because they had something else to do.

Hubert’s face turned bright red. “Go back and give my command that food be brought at once. Tell the cooks to deliver it themselves if they cannot find servants. I will not have my guests insulted by further delay.”

The boy scurried out. A long while passed with no meal arriving.

Arundal tapped his fingers on the table, and assumed an expression of haughty disapproval. Marcus propped his head on his hand and waited.

“Can we assume that you command your horse better than these servants, Hubert?” Arundal asked.

Hubert muttered curses, and excused himself to go find someone to yell at.

He had not taken more than five steps when a servant finally appeared. He did not come from the kitchen, nor did he carry any food. Rather he stepped down the stairs from the adjoining tower, toting a stool.

Another followed, carrying a plank. More came into view, forming a little procession. Some held other pieces of wood, or fat candles, or pillows. They filed through the hall, heading toward the door to the yard.

“Hell of a thing,” Hubert muttered.

“Is this some Welsh feast day?” Arundal asked.

A woman carried a box as if it contained a treasure. Marcus recognized it as the one in which Nesta kept her little pots of inks.

Nesta herself appeared, surrounded by chatting women. She completely ignored the barons at the high table as she followed her retinue out of the building.

Hubert walked to the door and craned his neck. “They are going into the chapel.”