Page 23 of Winter Longing
“Un petit peu,” she replied before returning to English. “Father Gilbert speaks many languages, and he's been teaching me—French, English, Latin—since I was a bairn. In the last few years, our laird decided that it would be useful for his soldiers to know some English—just enough for those who might find themselves face to face with Englishmen in the war. Most have a rudimentary knowledge while others,”—she shrugged, smiling faintly— “well, not everyone takes to languages as easily as others.”
Cole watched as Dersey, along with two other soldiers, took their seats at the opposite end of the head table. The rest of the chairs, including one richly adorned chair next to Ailsa—presumably her brother’s—remained unoccupied. Dersey made no effort to hide his disapproval, sending Cole pointed glares down the length of the table. Supposing that Ailsa likely outranked him and understanding that if she wished for his company at the head table, there wasn’t much Dersey could say about it, Cole let the man’s obvious contempt roll off him.
Ailsa nodded to a woman standing at the end of the table, maybe only waiting on Ailsa’s cue. The server immediately stepped forward, filling Ailsa's goblet with wine before moving on to the other guests at the table. Soon after, as people took their seats, the room bustled again, this time with a bevy of servers moving around, between tables, laying out platters of food.
Cole glanced down and then along the table, curious about the lack of utensils.
Unsure of the protocol and not wanting to misstep—still many sets of eyes were trained on him—he leaned toward Ailsa, inquiring, “Do they bring out the silverware?”
“Silverware?” She questioned, her brows knitting.
“Um, forks, knives, spoons,” he clarified.
She cast her gaze to his hip between them, her brow remaining drawn. “Ye lost yer eating knife?”
Pretty sure she wasn’t talking about his multitool, which did have a small spork and a selection of different knives, he shrugged and murmured, “I guess so.”
She caught the eye of one young kid carrying bread, giving him a simple but direct nod, requesting an additional loaf be brought to their table along with an extra knife—but oddly, not a fork or spoon. However, no words were wasted, and the kid scurried off without a hint of hesitation.
He contemplated the way Ailsa managed the servants and couldn’t help but liken her to a princess—maybe that wasn’t the right word, but as some rich person directing their servants. She was kind, polite, didn’t seem overly bossy, but it was evident she’d been born to the higher class, the ones who gave orders rather than received them.
Ailsa faced Cole again. “Would ye prefer a trencher or a plate?”
“I have no idea what the difference is,” he admitted, “so I’ll have what you’re having.”
In front of Ailsa looked to be the heel of a loaf of bread, flattened and wide, and he guessed that was a trencher, to be used as a plate.
A moment later, Ailsa summoned the next server to happen by, a young girl this time. She said something in her ownlanguage, ending it with a nod and smile, at which the girl nodded in agreement and scampered quickly away.
“Mildred will bring another trencher,” Ailsa informed him. “'Tis customary for us to share a trencher, and in some circumstances, that I should feed ye,” she said—straight-faced despite Cole’s widening eyes. “But my brother considers the practice unseemly and does nae allow it.”
Cole thought he might agree with her brother on this point. That sounded very awkward, certainly in the mixed and watchful company of the dining room. A few covert glances out into the hall showed that the skinny gaze of the woman, Anwen, was steady on him.
The extra trencher arrived. Cole tapped his fingers on it, sorry to find that it was rock hard. He’d assumed that whatever the dish with the meat and gravy was, it would be perfect for soaking into a soft, warm bread plate, something to mop up the rich sauce at the end of the meal. This thing, though, dry and solid, might have better served as a doorstop than anything meant to accompany food. He gave it another disappointed poke, wondering how anyone could manage to eat such a thing without chipping a tooth.
Ailsa was watching, he realized, meeting her puzzled gaze.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I thought it would be...different.”
A ghost of a smile curved her pretty lips before she picked up her own knife and began cutting into a roasted bird—chicken?—delicate but sure-handed.
The food itself was a mystery to Cole. He could only guess at each dish’s identity based on appearance: meat stews, hard bread, cheeses, and vegetables he couldn’t name crowded the table, none of it anything like what he was used to. His stomach rumbled, but he hesitated, unsure how to approach it. Everything seemed to be served in large cuts, and the arrangement was completely foreign to him.
"What’s this?" he asked, pointing to a small dish directly in front of them, something yellowish-orange and lumpy.
“Turnips, cooked in butter and honey,” she said simply, though her tone suggested she was more amused by his confusion than anything else.
"Turnips," he repeated. "I’ve only ever seen turnips at Thanksgiving dinner at Aunt Rosie’s table.” And he’d never liked them, considering them too bitter.
He took his cue from Ailsa and everyone else dining in front of him, all of whom used only their knives and their hands to eat, and did the same. And he found that he was pleasantly surprised by the food. The meat was tender and savory, the cheeses not what he was used to but very tasty, creamier, and the turnips were hardly bitter at all. The bread was dense and kind of dry, but it had great flavor.
Still, the entire setting was surreal. As soon as he began to feel satisfied for the food hitting his stomach, he peppered Ailsa with questions, reminding her he knew nothing about the year 1302.
“So who pays for all of this? The food, the staff...this whole...operation?” He gestured vaguely at the hall, trying to make sense of it all. “Seems like an awful lot for just one place.”
Ailsa paused as she sliced another piece of meat, considering his question carefully. “It’s all part of the laird’s responsibility," she said after a moment. “Tavis manages the lands and the people here, he and Torr Cinnteag’s steward and bailiff. All these resources come from the land, the animals, and what we grow or trade." She continued, explaining how the complex web of feudal obligations worked—the people worked the land, paying part of their earnings in kind or in coin, and the laird, in turn, provided protection and resources in exchange.
Cole nodded, though his confusion hadn’t entirely dissipated. "And the... people? Are you all related? All Sinclairs?"
