Castaways in Time by Adams Robert

He had gone on, at great length and in the same, stilted manner, to announce that Sir Francis Whyffler, now Duke of Northumberland, had ceded his ancestral lands to the Crown, at Arthur’s personal request; that Bass Foster had received those same lands in feoff from Arthur in a formal ceremony at Greenwich Castle and so he was, consequently, now their overlord.

“However, our lord, burdened as he is with his military duties, attendance upon our King and the affairs of his duchy and earldom, will likely be unable to return to this barony for some time; therefore, I am to place its affairs in the charge of his lady-wife, Her Grace the Duchess of Norfolk, and the present intendant, Captain Geoffrey Musgrave.

“Captain Musgrave, please step forward.”

Then, in a simple and businesslike manner, the Arabian had knighted a bemused Geoff Musgrave in Bass’ name, had himself knelt to buckle the gilded prick spurs onto the old reaver’s scuffed jackboots. Then, still in Bass’ name, Sir Ali had presented the new knight with a fine Spanish sword, a dagger of the reknowned Tara steel, and a brace of the new flintlock horsepistols, as well as a thick, wax-sealed letter from Duke Sebastian.

Due to all the excitement and ceremony, dinner had not been served until after two in the afternoon. Throughout the long meal, the normally voluble Sir Geoffrey Musgrave had said hardly a word, and from time to time Krystal had noticed him fingering the heavy, golden thumbring and the golden pendant of his office as a duke’s intendant on its gilded chain as if he expected them to imminently disappear in a wisp of smoke. Krystal supposed that the items had been within the folds of the letter or inside the pistol case.

Finally, Krystal had said, “Sir Geoffrey, Geoff, you can’t live on ale alone; eat something. The good Master Millan is the finest parting gift that the Archbishop could have given us; he is an outstanding chef and has really done his usual genius on these fine pork-and-herb pasties. Try one.”

A pained expression came over the grizzled warrior’s countenance. “Och, y’r ladyship, His Grace, y’r noble husband, Duke Bass . . . er, Sebastian, meant well and a’ I ken me, but he should nae ha’ done sich. Och, aye, the Musgraves— semets o’ ’em—beo’ the auld nobility, but I be but a common wight, y’ ken? I be a younger son, younger grandson, and eke younger great-grandson and precious little noble blude flows in me. I be but a plain, bluff sojer, no true knicht, nor wif His Grace’s generosity or the noble Sir All’s buffet make o’ me elst.”

Krystal shook her head. “What’s all that got to do with the price of bagels, Geoff?”

“My lady . ..?”

She shoved a brass platter toward him. “Have some of the goose, Geoff. Common or noble, you need food.”

The scarred and wrinkled face screwed up and Sir Geoffrey Musgrave hung his head and said in a low voice. “I … fear … I fear to disgust my lady. I be a base, common mon and I hae not the high-table skills and manners and a’. ..”

Sir Ali leaned back in his armchair and roared with laughter then. Leaning forward and speaking around Krystal, he said, “You’ll never learn them, Sir Geoffrey, by starving yourself to death. Not that they be all that important to any save soft pampered courtiers, anyway. Draw your belt knife and have at that goose, I’ll tell you all you need to know.

“Now, firstly, when dining at high table, a gentleman should use but his right thumb and two fingers to convey his victuals to his mouth, never allowing grease or sauces to come into contact with his palm.” Grinning, he displayed a hand greasy to the wrist.

“Secondly, he should be careful to never spit back small bones or gristle into a common dish.”

“Fd ne’er do sich, high table or low, my lord!” said Musgrave indignantly.

“You see,” nodded Sir All, with mock seriousness, “you’re more inherently noble than you thought. And I am not your lord, Sir Geoffrey, not any longer. You may address me as Sir Ali or preferably, as just Ali, since I’d be your friend.