THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

he stared at the opposite end of the hall to where chairs had been arranged in a circle before the fireplace. More seating—a half dozen benches— were positioned against the back of the book chests. One of the two colorful rugs he’d brought back from the Holy Lands now lay before the sitting area’s fireplace while the second hung in the center of the north wall. Two tapestries he’d brought back from France as prizes—and which he’d totally forgotten about—now hung on either side of the hanging carpet.
    On either end of the mantles and sideboards sat large pewter pitchers filled with tall reeds and lavender. His coat of Arms, its bent armored right arm holding a cross-crosslet with the motto Vincere et morri —-“To win or die”—lounged not in a corner of the solar where he’d dropped it, but now hung above the dining end’s mantle. Above the opposite fireplace hung his best shield, it’s bright fields of red and gold announcing by candlelight his lineage and relationship to the King to one and all. Two of his best pennants hung on either side of the windows on the south wall, opposite the Persian rug.
    “Merciful Mother, is there naught of mine she hasna plundered?”
    Isaac, looking about wide-eyed, mumbled, “I dinna think so.” He pointed to his left. “There be yer heavy armor. Apparently, she couldna get yer new chain mail to stand on its own.”
    Angus grinned. “What say ye, Duncan? Yer best lance in his hand is a nice touch, nay?” He lifted the helmet’s face guard and laughed. “‘Tis full of straw.”
    Duncan, on the verge of bellowing for his wife, snapped his jaws closed when the bailey bell suddenly rang and people started marching up the stairs and into the great hall. The men, uncharacteristically mute, took their places at the tables while the women chatted in animated fashion and settle the bairn, who, wide-eyed, spun and excitedly extolled on all the changes Beth had wrought.
    He silently took his seat at the center of the head table after checking to be sure nothing sharp lay on the seat. Angus, still grinning like an idiot, sat to his right, and Isaac took the seat to Angus’s right.
    “Why are the men so quiet?” Isaac whispered.
    “I don’t understand any of this, friend.” Duncan examined the pot of heather before him, and hoped his wife would make an appearance soon. He wanted an explanation.
    “What are the bowls for?” Angus asked as he peeked under the white cone.
    Duncan shrugged his good shoulder as three women marched in, carrying dozens of tankards. He sighed in relief as Beth followed, carrying a large flagon of ale. She whispered something to one of the women as she handed off the flagon, and then exited before he could get her attention.
    As a lass filled his tankard, he asked, “What say my lady to ye?”
    “Lady Beth cautioned that I should serve from the left, lest I be fond of scrubbing possets for a fortnight, my lord.”
    Having no idea why serving to the left held importance, or why posset scrubbing would be just punishment should the lass not, he said, “Ah.”
    The ale served, more women placed baskets of bread at each table as others arrived with platters of roasted venison, fish, eggs, and with what appeared to be weeds. Beth returned and stood by the door watching the proceedings as more women followed with bowls of sauce. When all met with her approval, the women took their seats, and Beth came to sit on his left.
    All eyes were upon them as he pulled out her chair. “Good eve, my lady.”
    She said not a word, only lifted a brow when Flora glided into the room and took a seat in the first row, directly before them.
    Beth picked up her white cone, made a show of flapping it out before placing it in her lap. The women mimicked her actions. The men, frowning, followed suit. Not a one, apparently, was of a mind to garner his ladywife’s or his own wife’s disapproval.
    As Rachael served Isaac, Beth ground out between clenched teeth, “May I serve you, my lord?”
    Cautioned by the fierce glint of steel in her eyes, he said, “Thank ye. All smells verra good, my lady.” When the corner of her mouth twitched, he added, “Appears verra good, as well.” Her gaze slid to his lips, but she remained mute as she slung food into his wooden trencher. He scowled when she placed the weeds in it.
    Pouring an oily red sauce over the greenery, she said, “Dandelions, fennel, and crest. Eat it. You’ll like it.”
    He glanced down the