Read Online The Skin Map by Stephen R. Lawhead - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
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“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
“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
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