The Green Man by Kate Sedley Page A

time I’m in council getting yourself fed in the kitchens. I can hear your belly rumbling from here.’
    â€˜I’m not surprised,’ I grumbled. ‘A handful of dried oats was all I got for breakfast, and another one for dinner when we stopped on the road.’
    Albany laughed. ‘And a big fellow like you needs some feeding, eh?’ There was a rap on the outer door. ‘Ah! No doubt this is my summons to the council-of-war.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought everything had been decided before we left Fotheringay. Why do Englishmen like to talk so much?’ Davey appeared in the inner chamber, but before he could say anything, Albany nodded. ‘All right. Tell whoever it is I’m coming.’ He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Remember what I said, Roger. Get yourself fed.’
    I didn’t need telling a third time.
    Davey went with me into the bowels of the castle where one of the many kitchens had been cleared to make room for trestles and benches, and which was already full of a chattering, munching throng of servants and hangers-on belonging to the nobles who were now in conclave somewhere above us.
    â€˜There are Murdo and Donald and Jamie,’ the page said, steering me towards a table set right against the far wall. ‘They’ve saved places for us.’
    I wasn’t at all sure that I wanted to eat in the company of the Scotsmen, but before I could demur, Davey had seized me by the elbow and was propelling me across the room. And after looking about me in vain for another empty seat, I allowed him to do so without protest.
    I found myself seated between Davey and Murdo MacGregor. For a time, while I filled my empty belly with hot mutton and barley broth and a hunk of black bread – served with a bad-tempered thump and splash by one of the castle scullions – the four of them ignored me. In truth, they were also too busy eating to say much, but they did, every now and then, mutter to one another in their own broad Scots tongue. I let them get on with it.
    Eventually, however, the edge of everyone’s appetite was blunted and the noise of wagging tongues increased. I had scraped my bowl clean and was sitting, picking scraps of mutton from between my teeth, staring into the distance at the chattering throng, seeing, but not seeing, when I was suddenly addressed by Donald Seton in English.
    â€˜I’m told, Chapman, that you were once a novice at Glastonbury Abbey. Before you took up peddling, that is.’
    I blinked, jerked out of my reverie.
    â€˜Who told you that?’ I asked.
    He shrugged. ‘I forget, but it doesn’t really matter. Is it true?’
    I nodded. ‘What of it? I’ve never made any secret of the fact. Why should I? I left before I took my vows. I discovered that the contemplative life was not for me. Nor the celibate life, either.’
    He laughed. ‘All right! No need to take that defensive tone! I’m not blaming you. A religious house is no place for an able, red-blooded man, as I can see you are.’ Murdo nodded in agreement, but I didn’t much care for the cynical grin that accompanied the nod. Donald went on, ‘What interests me – us –’ he made a little gesture that included his fellow squire – ‘is Glastonbury itself.’ He hesitated for a moment, glancing first at Murdo, then at Davey, as though uncertain whether or not to continue, before returning his gaze to me. The pause was prolonged before he added, with seeming inconsequence, ‘They say you have the “sight”.’
    â€˜Who are these mysterious “they”?’ I demanded irritably. ‘Who have you been talking to?’
    â€˜Do you have the “sight”?’ Murdo interposed, ignoring my questions.
    â€˜Not as my mother had it, no. But I do sometimes have dreams. They don’t, however, foretell the future, but they do, on occasions, guide me along the right