CHAPTER 819: SHARING MEALS (PART ONE)

In Lothian Manor, a steady rain tapped at the windows of Bors Lothian’s bed chamber with gusts of chill, wintery wind that rattled the glass in the window frames. Cold seeped in from the stone walls despite the tapestries hanging over them and the small hearth burning quietly in the corner of the room.

In a stately bed, carved from the trunk of one of the demon’s sacred oak trees, Bors Lothian lay uncomfortably, propped up by a pile of pillows and wearing nothing but a dressing gown beneath the heavy fur blankets piled atop the feather mattress.

"Blech," Bors said as he finished drinking the steaming contents of a thick, wooden cup. "What is wrong with physicians? Have they seared the sense of taste from their tongues? What an utterly foul concoction," he groused as he set the cup on a table beside the bed.

"I know it’s bitter, my Lord," Jocelynn said as she worked at a nearby table to assemble a plate of food for the man she once hoped would become her father-in-law. Because Loman had directed the kitchens to minimize the fats they served the aging Marquis in order to protect his health, many of Bors’s favorite dishes were missing from the serving platter, but there were still things that could stir even an ailing man’s appetite.

"I spoke with the Master of Kitchens about your meals," Jocelynn said lightly. "They’ve made a sweet porridge of broken rice and cream with dried cherries and raisins. I even convinced them to soak the fruit in wine for you before adding it to the porridge. I’m sure they meant it for your dessert, but if you’d prefer it now to chase away the bitterness of the medicine, I can bring it to you," she offered.

"Dessert before dinner," Bors snorted. "I’m not Loman and I’m not five. A few thick sausages or a hearty beef roast, and I’ll forget all about the damn foul concoction," he insisted.

"No sausages," Jocelynn said as she lifted the plate from the table and carried it over to Bors. "Roasted hen’s breast with garden herbs, beef cheeks stewed with sweet onions and carrots, and a warm salad of pickled beets and cabbage," she said as she handed him one plate while setting a similar plate on the bedside table for herself.

"At least it’s not an invalid’s diet of gruel and broth," Bors groused as he looked at the contents of his plate. "But did you have to cut everything up for me? You’re acting like I can’t be trusted with a blade."

"Your blade is right here," Jocelynn said with a light laugh as she tapped the oak-handled carving knife on the bedside table. "But so long as you’re taking a meal in bed, don’t you think it’s better to save the hacking and sawing at things? You wouldn’t want to make a mess and have to sleep in it," she teased lightly.

Ever since the meeting of the Lothian Court, Jocelynn had made a point of taking all of her meals with the ailing Marquis. He’d sent Loman to investigate the demons in Hanrahan Barony, and he’d turned very cold toward Owain, but somehow, Jocelynn had managed to slip under his guard like a thin blade sliding under the plates of a knight’s armor.

He’d been grumpy when she first joined him for breakfast, but when she pointed out that Loman had instructed the kitchens on how to prepare his meals out of an abundant concern for his father’s health, Bors had strangely relented. By the time she’d taken lunch and dinner with him, he seemed to act as though this had been a regular habit of theirs and not something that had only begun recently.

Of course, Jocelynn wasn’t attending the ailing Marquis out of pure filial piety or a noblewoman’s sense of duty to their lord. She had come with a purpose, and she used these meals as a way to speak her mind to a captive audience, though she’d needed to steel herself to keep trying to break through his initial resistance when her first attempt produced such meager results.

At their very first breakfast together, when she’d tentatively suggested ways the march might recover from the demon raids, Bors had been taciturn and reluctant to discuss anything of importance with her. That morning was full of incredulous snorts and dismissive prevarications about finding real solutions once the full Lothian Court assembled.

"You think there are enough fish in Valeri’s lakes to make up for the loss of the Dunn’s herds and flocks?" Bors had said, laughing so hard at the notion that it provoked a fit of coughing. "If that were true, the Leufroy’s would have risen to rival the Dunns long ago. The best use of those lakes is irrigating their fields of wheat and sustaining the orchards they’re so fond of."

"But I’ve spoken to Lady Adala Leufroy several times about the fish in those lakes," Jocelynn protested. "They dine on them regularly in Leufroy Town and the surrounding villages. They just don’t have boats with trawling nets the way we do on the coast. My father is an honorary member of the Lineman’s guild, and I’m sure that he’ll send us a few experts to teach the Leufroys how to better harvest the abundance of their lakes..."

"As if fighting men can subsist on those tiny little fishes," Bors snorted. "They’re no bigger than a man’s hand!"

No amount of explaining on Jocelynn’s part could make it sound appealing and so she’d given up and moved on to another topic involving the lands for the Guild Masters at the edges of Dunn Barony, which Bors seemed more receptive to discussing.

It had come as a complete surprise that evening, when Jocelynn joined the ailing Marquis for dinner, when he brought up the notion of harvesting fish from the numerous lakes in Leufroy.

"I’ve been thinking of those fish in Valeri’s lakes," he said gruffly when Jocelynn served him a plate that included spit-roasted trout from the River Luath. "What was it you called them? Panfish? You said a fighting man can have a full meal of just two of these fish?"

"It depends on how it’s prepared," Jocelynn said with a sweet smile. "To supply a ship at sea or an army in the field, you should pickle them in large barrels, but they’ll be sour and salty. It’s easiest to mix them with potatoes to make a cake from..."