On the young king's left cheek there was a small red spot, or fleshmark, which caused the people to name him in after years, "James with the Fiery Face."
"Why tarries the countess?" asked Gray, in a hasty whisper, of Lord David Douglas.
"She is not to be here," said the lad, smiling.
"Nor the Countess of Ormond?"
"No; nor Murielle, either," added David, playing with the gold tassels of his mantle.
"Why?"
"I am not in her secrets."
"But Lady Murielle——"
"Came not, because there were none here whom she cared to meet," said the spiteful little lord, with a grimace.
The abbot of Tongland invoked a blessing; and after they had all discussed platters of good Scottish broth, which they supped with massive old spoons, that might have served at the spousal feast of King Robert and Marjorie Bruce, and very probably did so, the clatter of knives began, as the servers, pages, and pantrymen sliced down the chines of beef, the roasted pigs and brawns, or unroofed the huge pasties of pigeons and venison, and rushed here and there with trenchers of stewed hares, roasted ducks, buttered crabs, salads and salmon, manchets of flour, and confections of honey and sweetmeats, all of which were eaten pellmell, without order or course.