Fifteen.

In the village–not far away, just over two gently rolling hills and down two or three field lengths, lying just beside a rushing stream–Geoffrey stood at the cottage doorway and puzzled over what he might say. The boy’s mother–Rian’s mother–insisted that the master and he join the family for a meal the next day.

“After Pater has spoken to the boy, when that’s all done and put aside, we’ll have a meal. Rian’s just now gone to collect the sperage and we’ll have a hen or two. We’ll make a small feast of it, won’t we?”

“Tomorrow’s an ember day, Matron...”

“No meat then. Is that it? That is a shame.” She thought of what might be in the larder and was puzzled, too. “We’ll make do, young man. Still a feast. A small one maybe, but bread at least, and greens. And we’ll find something frothy for our cups.” She took to sweeping again. The floor couldn’t have been more clean, a mud floor dried hard and shiny. “You’ll see, young man. Geoff, was it?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“A feast, a feast,” the woman said, though she shook her head at the puzzle of it. Why visit on an ember day when all within her said they must eat?

For Geoffrey’s part, he bit his tongue. No one ever called him Geoff, not unless they wanted to provoke a fight. Country manners, he thought. When he first introduced himself, the matron hugged him and insisted, “I’m Beatrice, but they all call me Bea.” He recoiled at the familiarity.

Ember days, of course, were days of complete fasting. Geoffrey hated them, but it was better to choose hunger than be forced by want. Nothing but water. Broth perhaps, if you were sick, or old. He didn’t have the heart to say as much to the woman in front of him, who nearly danced with her broom.

“Come sit down, Geoff. I can’t see how you won’t have a nibble at least now. No ember day today, is it? That wouldn’t be fair. Not at all. A growing boy like you?”