Pocket found it odd that the feast following Coalspur’s funeral was a boisterous spectacle compared to the tourney that was to come. The Great Hall had been packed with long tables and benches, each filled to bursting with noisy feasters. All of the knights and squires had been there, shoulder to shoulder with mac Gabráin’s clansmen and even the more important of the Roost’s servants, the Mumbler among them. Lackcomb and the Knights Sergeant had a table to themselves. Áedán mac Gabráin sat with them, gravy in his fiery beard. Pocket wished he had been selected to refill their cups, but the Mumbler had him serving the squires at the far end of the Hall. Cocky and boisterous, they all had a great thirst and Pocket was kept busy, his arms aching with the weight of the flagon, but he cast an eye at the Grand Master’s table whenever he was spared the slightest moment.

Sir Corc sat with the other Knights Errant, not drinking too much nor eating too little. Sir Corc the Constant, his brothers called him. Pocket had not yet had a chance to speak with the knight since his return for the funeral, but he dared not approach him during the feast lest the Mumbler see his dallying. Sir Corc only looked his way once, along with the rest of the Hall, when Pocket tripped on the outstretched leg of a squire and fell hard to the floor, smashing the empty flagon. He felt shamed as he picked himself and the broken pieces off the floor, all eyes on him, the Mumbler staring hardest of all. Seconds later, the feast resumed and the eyes turned back to their drink and company, but Pocket saw Sir Corc’s face, turned over one shoulder, linger a little longer before turning back to his food.

When the feast was ended Pocket was sore and weary to the bones, wanting nothing so much as his little bed and Napper’s furry company, but before he made it out of the Great Hall, the Mumbler called him over, babbling in his low incomprehensible voice. Pocket did not need to understand the words to know he was being chastised. The Mumbler hated waste and a broken flagon was a waste. Pocket had been a waste of time ever since he was put into the Mumbler’s service, and the one thing the man hated wasting most was time. As punishment for breaking the flagon he was to help clear the Great Hall. And on it went, Pocket not hearing a word of it. The Mumbler was not cruel by nature and never struck him, but his disapproval was a living thing. Nothing would satisfy the man, leastways nothing Pocket ever did.