London - Edward Rutherfurd [105]
If only the fellow ate more pleasantly. Leofric was accustomed to all kinds of table manners amongst the bearded Norsemen of the port, but for some reason the little dribble of food that came from the corner of Ralph’s clean-shaven yet brutal mouth filled him with a particular repugnance. Not to seem wanting in the courtesies, his silent companion also offered him his goblet to share, which Leofric was naturally bound to do.
Still, the meal was impressive. Silversleeves kept his table like a French noble. After the brewet came a porray – a soup of leeks, onions and other vegetables cooked in milk. Then a civet of grilled hare cooked in wine. As was the custom, the tablecloth was long, so that the diners could use it as a napkin, and Leofric was impressed to notice that, whether because of the mess Ralph made, or whether it was simply another example of his host’s magnificence, the cloth was changed between every course, just as if he had been dining with the king.
Silversleeves himself was a fastidious eater. He rinsed his hands frequently in a bowl of rose-water. He ate slowly, taking small bites. And yet, Leofric observed, it was extraordinary how much food he put away in this decorous fashion. The wine in the two earthenware pitchers was also excellent – the most prized, from the Paris region. Leofric drank just enough for it to seem to him that as they rose and dipped over their food in the glow of the candlelight, the three noses beside him had become even longer than before.
Finally came a frumenty, a custard dish with figs, nuts and spiced wine. Only then did Silversleeves broach the business in hand.
He began indirectly. They had been speaking generally of the invasion, and what news they might expect to hear. “Of course,” he said meditatively, “as a Norman, I know some of William’s men.” And he named de Montfort, Mandeville and several of the Norman duke’s closest confidants. “Whoever wins,” he remarked, “it will probably be the same for our business.”
But not, Leofric thought bleakly, for mine.
For a few moments Silversleeves was silent, letting the Saxon think his own, sad thoughts. Then, with a smile, he came smoothly to the point.
“One of my sons,” he said easily, “wishes to marry your daughter.” Before Leofric could frame a suitable response, he gently continued: “We seek no dowry, except the alliance with your good name.”
Leofric gasped. This was as astonishing as it was courteous. But it was nothing compared with what followed. “I can also offer an arrangement that might be of interest to you. If this marriage takes place, I should like to take over your two debts, to Barnikel and Becket. You need never concern yourself with them again.” At which he dipped his nose into his beaker of wine and then stared politely at the tablecloth.
For several moments Leofric was completely speechless. When, in his message, Silversleeves had stated that he could be of help to him, the Saxon had realized that the Norman was powerful, but this was far beyond anything he had dreamed of.
“But why?” he asked simply.
Silversleeves gave what might have been a sentimental smile.
“All for love,” he said softly.
To be free of his debts. Perhaps an alliance with this Norman might even save the estate if William should triumph.
“Which son wants my daughter?” he asked gruffly.
Silversleeves looked surprised. “I thought you knew. It is Henri.”
And Leofric was so relieved it was not Ralph, he scarcely troubled to notice that young Henri’s eyes were cold.
Yet even with this prospect opened up before him, he knew he could not. Hadn’t he given Barnikel his word? It was now, for the first time in his life, that just for a moment the honest Saxon experienced a truly base thought. If by chance the Dane or his son were to be killed in battle, then he would be free of his promise and the family fortune saved.
“I will consider