Stephen Lawhead - The Skin Map

“Pardon?” replied Kit.

“Which saint, sir? Peter?” He held up a spoon. “Or, would you prefer Saint Paul?”

“Ah, um, yes,” said Kit, glancing at his great-grandfather for advice and receiving only an expectant nod. “Paul, I suppose. No! Make it Peter-definitely. It’s Peter for me all the way.”

“A very wise choice, sir,” replied the landlord, handing him one of the deep-bowled spoons that, on closer inspection, turned out to have a handle fashioned in the bearded likeness of said saint.

Kit dipped his utensil into the steaming broth and brought it to his tongue. To Kit’s untutored palate, the soup had the musky savour of seashells stewed with old socks. Unable to match Sir Henry for the gusto with which the nobleman attacked this delicacy, he sampled a few spoonfuls politely. While his companions slurped down the soup, he looked around the room at his fellow diners: all men, and all wearing the same dark wool clothing with minor variations. All sported elaborate lace neckwear and a marvellous profusion of beards. This, Kit decided, was really where they splashed out. Indeed, the general population seemed to be in some sort of tonsorial competition to see who could achieve the most outlandish whiskers. Judging from the results on display, the contest was at a highly advanced stage.

There were men with sideburns so thick it looked as if they were peeping out from behind a scrubby bush; others with moustaches that had long since covered their mouths and threatened to engulf their chins; there were pointed beards, pencil-thin beards, ornately sculpted beards, goatees, and full-blown Father Time beards. Several had immaculately pin-curled their facial hair, and one especially hirsute fellow had grown his neck hair long and brushed it upward to meet his face, rather than vice versa. Kit ran his fingers over his own scruffy growth and knew himself to be something of a pitiful specimen to the others.

The soup bowls were removed and exchanged for a platter heaped with steaming, half-open shells of mussels and clams; on the rim of the platter were shucked oysters interspersed with little round dollops of pale, squidgy meat Kit could not readily identify. Sir Henry and Cosimo fell to with a vengeance, and soon discarded shells were clicking like castanets.

Kit, whose notion of acceptable shellfish extended only to prawn vindaloo, stared at the small mountain of glistening, gaping mollusks before him and felt his throat seize up. He picked at one and another of the critters closest to hand and tried to make it look as if he was enjoying himself. When that failed, he turned his attention to the rounded dollops decorating the perimeter of the platter. They looked harmless enough, so he tried one and decided it was not only edible, but positively delicious.

“Wise choice, sir!” exclaimed Sir Henry, glancing up to take a pull from his ale pot. “Poached eel! A delight!”

Ordinarily, this knowledge would have somewhat dampened Kit’s appetite for the morsels, but the heavenly taste outweighed any squeamishness he might naturally have felt, and he proceeded to devour them one by one. He was genuinely sorry when the boy returned to take away the platter; when the debris was cleared away, he was given a clean crockery vessel the size of a generous mixing bowl. Two more lads followed bearing a wooden plank that, at first glance, appeared to contain the disjointed carcass of an entire pig. In fact, it was what Kit considered a mixed grill of the highest order containing not only chops of pork, but beefsteaks, veal stuffed with brawn, lamb shanks, assorted ribs, a plump loin of venison and, around the whole, slices of pale pink flesh that Kit could not identify.

Knives had been stuck in some of the cuts, and Sir Henry wasted not a moment, but seized the handle of the nearest knife, speared a chop, and began eating it from the blade. Kit did likewise, impaling one succulent cut after another, sampling them all. The pork was excellent-all smoky, juicy, and hot from the flames. The lamb and ribs were next, and equally toothsome, as was the stuffed veal. He skipped the beef-it was a little too rare for him-and went for one of the pale pink slabs of flesh he did not recognize. The meat was somewhat chewy, but with a fine, delicate flavour unlike any other meat he had ever tasted.

“Ah-ha!” exclaimed Sir Henry, watching him with amusement. “You are a very trencherman, sir. I salute you!”

“It is wonderful,” enthused Kit around a large mouthful. “This one is especially delicious. What is it?” He held up what remained of the slice for inspection.

“Oh, yes!” answered Sir Henry appreciatively. “You have hit on it there, sir. For that is hart’s tongue-a specialty of the house-aged and then brined, and slow roasted. I daresay you’ve never tasted the like.”

“I don’t get out much,” remarked Kit. He finished the slice, and another, before moving on to taste a little more of the venison. Two additional bowls, largely overlooked, were also present on the board. One contained a mash of turnips and parsnips mixed with cream and drenched with melted butter, and the other held some sort of sauteed greens. He spooned up a hefty helping of the mash and politely tasted the greens, then resumed his steady work on the heap of ribs and shanks before him. By the time Kit pushed himself away, his bowl was a slaughterhouse tangle of bones and gristle, and his cheeks, chin, and hands were dripping with grease. He felt as if he might possibly explode from internal pressure and that, all things considered, this would probably be for the best.

“Well done, sirs!” cried Sir Henry. He commended them on their gustatory prowess and sat back in his chair, smoothing the fat from his trim beard with glistening fingers. As the serving boys appeared to clear away the carnage, he announced, “I believe we shall take our port and sweetmeats in private, gentlemen.” Rising from his chair, he paused to wipe his mouth and hands on the tablecloth. “This way, if you please.”

Kit rose to follow. Sir Henry paused, picked up the apostle spoon, and turned to Kit. “Any man who would hold his own at table with me must wield a ready spoon.” He handed the silver utensil to him. “It would please me to offer you this as a commemorative token of our new friendship.”

Kit glanced at his great-grandfather for guidance. Cosimo smiled and gave him a slight nod of encouragement.

“Then I would be honoured to accept it in the spirit in which it is offered, Sir Henry,” he said, in imitation of the high-flown style of address. “I shall treasure it.”

Sir Henry beamed and then led them back through the dining room and up a staircase to a smaller chamber where, as the landlord had said, a table had been made ready and a fire glowed in the grate. Sir Henry settled into one of the big leather chairs and waved his guests to others. A small bald man appeared with a decanter of ruby liquid that he proceeded to pour into shallow silver cups.

“Thank you, Barnabas. We will see to ourselves. You may go,” said Sir Henry Fayth when they each had a cup in hand. The serving man gone, he lifted his cup and said, “Here now, let us discuss the issues of the day.”

“Nothing would please me more,” replied Cosimo. “First, however, I would hear more about this experiment that you have proposed in the hall tonight.”

“Oh, that,” replied Sir Henry. “The merest trifle, a bit of subterfuge-nothing more.”

“But do you think it wise?”

“I think it wise to nip the weed in the bud,” replied Sir Henry reasonably. “Too many of our members are talking about this so-called ley discovery. By leading and conducting an experiment which not only fails, but is seen to fail-and fail spectacularly, I might add-then no respectable member will dare raise the subject again for fear of being considered…” He paused, searching for the right word. “… ridiculous, yes-a laughingstock, let us say.”