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.
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