It was a bright and dazzling scene: at the head of the hall sat the
Baron and his chief guests upon a platform. Above it hung trophies
of war or the chase--arms borne in many a conflict, swords, spears,
arrows--to each of which some legend was attached; the antlers of
the giant stag, the tusk of the wild boar, the head and bill of
some long-necked heron.
Below, at right angles to the high table, were three other tables,
not fixtures, but composed of boards spread over trestles, and
covered with coarse white cloths. At these sat the retainers, the
men whose rank did not entitle them to sit at the high table, to
the number of some three hundred--there was not an Englishman
amongst them.
All day long the cooks and their menials had groaned before the
huge fires, where they roasted deer, sheep, oxen, swine, and the
like, and now they bore the joints in procession around the tables,
and the guests cut off--with the knives which hung at their
girdles, and which, perchance, had been more than once stained by
the blood of their foes--such portion of the meat as they fancied,
transferred it to their trenchers, and ate it without the aid of
forks; nevertheless there were napkins whereon to wipe their hands
when they had done.
The leaders sat at the high table--the leaders of each of the
numerous bands which had scoured the forest; one, and only one, was
absent, and he was, as our readers know, Etienne, son of Hugo.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125