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snapped. “I can see I shall have to begin again with you, but when I am through, you will be a meek and subservient wife for my son.”
    “That brat you spawned on your bovine bride will never be my husband, uncle! Put it from your mind now. I will choose my own husband this time, but certainly not until I have mourned my Hugh for at least a full year, as is proper and expected. Try and foist your bantam cock on me and you shall regret it!”
    “You will damned well do what I tell you, Rosamund! I am your uncle! I have dominion over you!” Henry shouted, red-faced.
    “Mistress! Come to the table,” Maybel interjected, coming into the hall. “The food is ready.”
    “Uncle, you are certainly hungry, and my cousin, too. Maybel is correct. Come and eat before the food goes cold. Then you will speak with my husband.” Rosamund was once again the good hostess, the well-mannered chatelaine. She brought her angry relation and his son to the high board. Then she filled their pewter plates herself, heaping them high with beef and goose, and ladling rabbit stew into hollowed-out trencher loaves. Maybel poured the matching pewter goblets full with the last of the October ale for Henry Bolton and apple cider for his young son. Rosamund pushed the bread, a crock of sweet butter, and a wedge of hard cheese down the table in front of her uncle.
    He began to eat, and the worst of his anger slowly drained away. He was pleased to note that his niece kept an excellent table. The food was hot, and it was fresh. It was not overcooked, nor was it filled with spices to disguise rot or decay. He speared a piece of beef with his knife and chewed. Tearing a piece of bread from the loaf, he smeared butter across it with his big thumb and crammed it into his mouth. Maybel kept his goblet filled, and he drank generously. The ale was clean and sharp, stripping away at his tongue so that the food tasted even better.
    Rosamund ate sparingly, and then she arose. “You will excuse me, uncle. I must bring broth to my husband.” She then turned her gaze to her young cousin. “There is a sweet for you when you have finished your supper, boy. ” Then she noted, “Uncle, he has no manners. Does your wife notteach him?” And she was gone from the hall before Henry Bolton the elder might protest her observation.
    “Use your spoon,” he snapped at his son. “Why do you eat with your hands like a peasant?”
    “I don’t have a spoon,” the boy whined.
    “You have one!” his father said, and he shook his fist at his namesake. “Use it, dammit! The little bitch is right. You have no manners. I shall have words with your mother over this, boy!”
    Behind the hall, connected to the house by a stone colonnade, was the kitchen house. Between the columns on either side a kitchen garden grew. Above was an arbor made up of flowering vines just now showing the first signs of green. Rosamund hurried to the kitchen. After complimenting the cook on a fine meal, she obtained a bowl of soup for her husband, and a piece of bread. She carried the small burden back into the house and up the flight of stone stairs to Hugh’s chamber. He was awake again, and he smiled at her as she entered. She smiled back, and setting the bowl down, drew a napkin from the folds of her skirts to tuck beneath his chin. Then she took the piece of bread from her pocket and broke it into small bits that she dropped into the soup. Sitting finally, she began to feed him.
    Hugh ate slowly and with difficulty, for swallowing was painful for him now. After a time he held up his hand to signal that he had had enough, yet the bowl was still practically full. “I can eat no more, my dearie,” he told her.
    “A spoonful or two more,” she coaxed, but he shook his head in the negative. “Oh, Hugh, how can you get well if you do not eat?” Her amber eyes were filled with concern for him.
    “Rosamund,” he chided her gently.
    “I know,” she half-whispered, “but I don’t want you to