It was gilded, it was silvered, it was painted, it
was surrounded with flame. From the boar and the peacock down to
such strange food as the porpoise and the hedgehog, every dish had
its own setting and its own sauce, very strange and very complex,
with flavorings of dates, currants, cloves, vinegar, sugar and
honey, of cinnamon, ground ginger, sandalwood, saffron, brawn and
pines. It was the Norman tradition to eat in moderation, but to
have a great profusion of the best and of the most delicate from
which to choose. From them came this complex cookery, so unlike
the rude and often gluttonous simplicity of the old Teutonic
stock.
Sir John Buttesthorn was of that middle class who fared in the old
fashion, and his great oak supper-table groaned beneath the
generous pastries, the mighty joints and the great flagons. Below
were the household, above on a raised dais the family table, with
places ever ready for those frequent guests who dropped in from
the high road outside. Such a one had just come, an old priest,
journeying from the Abbey of Chertsey to the Priory of Saint John
at Midhurst. He passed often that way, and never without breaking
his journey at the hospitable board of Cosford.
"Welcome again, good Father Athanasius!" cried the burly Knight.
"Come sit here on my right and give me the news of the
country-side, for there is never a scandal but the priests are the
first to know it.
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