John Saturnall's Feast (26 page)

John boiled, coddled, simmered and warmed. He roasted, seared, fried and braised. He poached stock-fish and minced the meats of smoked herrings while Scovell's pans steamed with ancient sauces: black chawdron and bukkenade, sweet and sour egredouce, camelade and peppery gauncil. For the feasts above he cut castellations into pie-coffins and filled them with meats dyed in the colours of Sir William's titled guests. He fashioned palaces from wafers of spiced batter and paste royale, glazing their walls with panes of sugar. For the Bishop of Carrboro they concocted a cathedral.

‘Sprinkle salt on the syrup,’ Scovell told him, bent over the chafing dish in his chamber. A golden liquor swirled in the pan. ‘Very slowly.’

‘It will taint the sugar,’ John objected.

But Scovell shook his head. A day later they lifted off the cold clear crust and John split off a sharp-edged shard. ‘Salt,’ he said as it slid over his tongue. But little by little the crisp flake sweetened on his tongue. Sugary juices trickled down his throat. He turned to the Master Cook with a puzzled look.

‘Brine floats,’ Scovell said. ‘Syrup sinks.’ The Master Cook smiled. ‘Patience, remember? Now, to the glaze . . .’

The tasks multiplied. Tasks which seemed more like riddles. Riddles which seemed more like tests. But every day added to the store of his knowledge. Little by little the kitchen's chambers came to seem his domain. Scovell was right, he thought as his fifth year at the Manor approached. The Feast could indeed belong to its cook.

‘Who was Tantalus?’ the Master Cook asked John that spring. ‘Was he a cook or a king? What dish would you cook for him?’

Another riddle, John thought. But now he knew the answer. ‘None, Master Scovell. The Feast belongs . . .’

‘To its cook. So it does,’ Scovell said quickly. ‘But think of this. Even King Tantalus had a master to serve, one whose appetite was his command.’ The man flicked his eyes towards the vault of the roof ‘Just as we do, John.’

The riddle had twisted again, John realised. But who was their master? Sir William had never descended down here. Nor his daughter, of course.

He considered the King in his pool, a king's baubles floating about him: a glittering crown, a ruby ring, a handful of bright coins. Tantalus's inedible riches would prove toothsome sweetmeats: the crown a confection of pastry and piped creams. Or a harder candy, the ring formed of spun sugar set with a crystallised cherry; the coins minted from paste baked and rebaked to a golden glaze. All hanging in a pool of pale amber jelly. Tantalus would look down into the depths, so clear he could see all the way to the bottom . . .

That had been his intention as he set to work, as he laboured and at last entrusted his creation to the oversight of Simeon Parfitt . . .

Now he contemplated soot.

‘Why couldn't Tantalus just eat boiled beef?’ Philip asked, pulling back the leather curtain to Firsts. ‘That's a meal. And it doesn't take a loaf of Madeira sugar . . .’

‘Forgot how to cook?’ a nasal voice broke in. Philip and John looked up.

A black helmet of hair framed a sallow face. A smudge of stubble approximated a moustache. Coake's smirk seemed to reach up to his thick black eyebrows.

‘At least we knew to start with,’ retorted Philip. But Coake kept his eyes on John.

‘Off for another little prayer tryst with Scovell, are we?’ His face glistened, reddening in the kitchen's heat. ‘Stir your pots together, eh Witch-boy?’

John started forwards but Philip barged between them. With a sneer, Coake pushed past and walked into the kitchen. John weighed the pan in his hand and scowled.

‘Forget him,’ Philip urged then rapped the pot with his knuckle. ‘Think about that. And what you're going to tell Mister Palewick . . .’

John nodded. Philip was right, he knew. In fact, since their quarrel and perhaps before, Philip was almost always right. A glacé, he thought as they walked into Firsts. Gelled with hartshorn. Or with calves’ feet to make a crystal jelly. The edible riches in the depths . . .

He would perfect the dish, he knew. Just as Simeon Parfitt would learn to watch pans as he was told. He would coax his creation into existence even if it took a hundred blackened pots.

He clarified sugar and poured it between pans. He mixed pastes and baked them in Vanian's slowest oven. He boiled down calves’ feet to jelly and concocted a glaze. At last he poured a clear mixture over the baubles which rested in the case. A day in Henry Palewick's coldest storeroom and the dish was ready for him to carry down the passage. In Scovell's chamber, the Master Cook held up a candle. Together they looked down.

Jewel-like candies glinted in the depths. A crown lay on its side amidst a scattering of coins. Scovell tapped a fingernail against the glaze then broke off a fragment of pastry and chewed.

‘That is the pool, Master Scovell,’ explained John. ‘It has turned the King's riches into sweets. Now he can eat . . .’

‘I understand,’ Scovell interrupted. ‘The water is very clear. This glaze too. How did you achieve that?’

John pursed his lips. In truth, he did not know how the Madeira sugar and its flavourings had finally dissolved and gelled, except that anything stronger than the slowest heat had clouded the dish, poisoning his pool with darkness. For the glaze he had held a hot iron over the surface, passing it slowly back and forth.

‘I kept it high over the chafing dish and the coals very few.’

Scovell nodded approvingly.

‘Patience,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that was the fault of Tantalus. And forgetting the nature of his master. But we will not make such a mistake, John.’

The riddle again. But who was Scovell's master?

‘Carry this back to the cold store,’ the Master Cook ordered him. ‘Ask Mister Palewick to keep it safe. Sir William's guest will taste it. Sir Sacherevell Cornish serves Sir Philemon Armesley, Mister Pouncey tells me. And Sir Philemon serves no one but the King . . .’

John nodded, still puzzled. What did it matter who broke the glaze he had so carefully made? Or spooned up the jelly? Its perfection lay here in his own hands. His thoughts were already returning to his dish. Hartshorn gave a clearer jelly, he considered that Sunday. On the other hand, the shavings took longer to dissolve . . . Dawdling out into the sun after chapel, he found himself wandering down into the meadows. Suddenly a loud splash roused him.

On the far side of the ponds stood a familiar figure. Coake was weighing a clod of earth in his hand. Barlow and Stubbs did the same. Across the water stood the Heron Boy. But at the sight of his tormentors, a hopeless confusion seemed to settle over him. He took a hesitant step forward then another one back. His wings trailed on the ground. John shouted across the pond.

‘Hey! Leave him be!’

The three clod-throwers turned to face him. Standing behind the trio, the Heron Boy only looked bewildered. John waved as if to shoo him clear but the Heron Boy echoed John's gesture. Across the pond's muddy brown water, a notion took root in John's mind.

‘Back from another prayer tryst with Scovell?’ Coake jibed.

‘What do you care?’

John swept an arm at Coake. Across the pond, the Heron Boy did the same. Slowly, John raised both arms in the air. Behind the trio, the Heron Boy's wings rose too.

‘Want to give up, do you, Raghead?’ sneered Coake. ‘You shouldn't have got in our way, should you? You shouldn't have . . .’

But John never learned what he shouldn't have done. Dropping his arms, he saw the Heron Boy's wings descend, the poles sweeping down to crack against the heads of Barlow and Stubbs. A spin of John's arms and the Heron Boy's wings spun too, fetching Coake a blow on the skull.

‘Agh! Damn you!’

Coake clutched his head and stumbled. Across the pond, John windmilled, sending the Heron Boy into the fray. Wing-poles swinging, the ragged figure marched on his enemies, whacking and thwacking. The three youths cursed and yelped under the barrage of blows, pulling up clods and hurling them back. Then, abruptly, they gave up the fight. Stopping mid-throw, Barlow and Stubbs lumbered back towards the house while Coake scrambled towards the trees opposite. The two comrades stared after them. Hands propped on his knees, John heaved air into his lungs. Across the pond, the Heron Boy bent forward and did the same. Slowly, John raised an arm. The pair saluted each other.

‘I know you can talk,’ John panted over the water. ‘You talk in your sleep.’

His fellow warrior grinned. Then his puzzled expression returned. John realised his fellow warrior was looking at something behind him.

‘Congratulations.’

Startled, John turned. A young woman wearing a short-brimmed riding hat sat upright on the back of a large grey horse. A dark green riding-skirt draped over the animal's flank ended in a pair of black boots. A sharp straight nose pointed itself at him. Once again, John looked up into the face of Lucretia Fremantle.

‘Your manners have not improved, John Saturnall,’ the young woman said.

‘Your ladyship?’

‘You are bold to observe me so frankly.’

He dropped his gaze to the pond's rippling surface. Her voice had deepened a shade, he thought. Her lips were fuller too. He had not set eyes on her since the glimpse outside the chapel. Now her reflection shimmered, dissolving then magically restoring itself But nothing would dissolve the nature of its owner, he reminded himself He recalled her shrill shout in the Solar Gallery.
Here! He's in here!
No amount of sugar would sweeten Lady Lucy's sourness. Across the water the Heron Boy stared as if Lucretia had landed on the back of a giant bird.

‘I see you have risen to the rank of kitchen boy,’ the young woman continued drily. ‘Just as you hoped.’

Her manner had not changed either, John thought.

‘I am a cook, your ladyship,’ he replied.

‘Yet more good fortune. I congratulate you, Master Saturnall.’ ‘Mister,’ he corrected her. ‘A cook's title is Mister.’ He waited a fraction of a second. ‘Lady Lucretia.’

‘Very well.’ She added her own pause.
’Mister
Saturnall. Thank you for that invaluable correction.’

‘I am glad to be of service to your ladyship.’ He paused again. ‘Your ladyship.’

‘And I am pleased to hear it,’ she replied icily. But in her reflected cheeks, John fancied he saw two points of red growing.

‘Then I thank you for that opportunity, your ladyship,’ John answered. Perhaps this was how they spoke to each other up there in the house. Like a game of fives, but with words not balls.

‘And I congratulate you on your new-found manners,’ Lucretia replied in a strained voice. ‘Would that I might guide you further into civility. Alas I must complete my ride. Now good day to you, Mister Saturnall.’

‘The regret is all mine, your ladyship. Good day to you too.’

A small part of John felt a twinge of disappointment as he stepped aside. The horse walked past. He watched Lucretia's hips sway in time with the animal's gait. Had they been so full in the Solar Gallery? Abruptly she halted. To turn and deliver another barbed comment, he presumed. But she was looking to the gatehouse where the great timbers were swinging open. A familiar contraption appeared at the top of the drive.

‘Oh, by the Cross,’ she muttered.

On the drive, two mismatched horses looked two different ways. A gaggle of attendants followed. The Callocks’ coach veered to left and right as it trundled down the drive.

She was courted by Piers Callock, the boys joked in the kitchens. Everyone knew that. But now she seemed anything but pleased. The coach came to an unceremonious halt outside the stables where it disgorged a portly red-faced man then a willowy woman whose face was concealed by a broad-brimmed hat. A youth a little older than John followed. Catching sight of Lucretia, he waved and advanced.

‘Lady Lucretia!’ So this was the famous Piers, thought John. A long pale face was topped by a large floppy cap of crimson velvet. Green silk lined the slashed sleeves of his doublet while matching stockings clung to his legs. A pair of shiny buckled shoes picked their way through the damp grass. Beneath the hat, the youth's nose seemed to drip down his face and gather in a knot above his lip. Piers came to a halt and cast a fastidious eye over John's doublet, the material faded and spattered with ancient stains.

‘You may go.’

John offered a bow to Lucretia. Across the pond, the Heron Boy did the same. But as John turned to leave, Lucretia spoke sharply.

‘I have not concluded my business with my servant, Lord Piers.’

John looked up once again. Piers's pallor was achieved with a dusting of powder, he saw. Beneath it, Piers's cheeks were sallow while a network of broken veins covered his nose. The youth's eyes narrowed.

‘I have ordered him gone,’ Piers said.

‘But he is my servant,’ Lucretia retorted. ‘And I have not.’

John stood between them.

‘Your servant?’ Beneath the powder, Piers's cheeks were beginning to take on the ruddy glow of his nose. ‘A kitchen boy?’

‘In point of fact, Lord Piers,’ Lucretia's voice had reverted to its icy tone, ‘Mister Saturnall is a cook.’

‘A cook?’ Piers's eyebrows rose in mock-surprise as he took in John's dark face and thick black hair. His lips curled. ‘But he appears more apelike than cooklike. Would you not say, my lady?’

John saw indecision furrow Lucretia's brow. Should she defend John or agree with Piers? Her frown deepened but before she could make either of the disagreeable choices, the men on the gate shouted out. Six liveried horsemen had entered and were trotting down the drive, the foremost rider carrying a blue pennant on which yellow lions had been embroidered. John saw Lucretia's eyes widen.

‘Those colours,’ she said. ‘Are they the King's colours?’

‘They are indeed, Lady Lucretia,’ Piers declared.

‘Here?’

‘They are carried by Sir Sacherevell Cornish who is engaged upon the King's business,’ Piers continued. ‘Their arrival was my purpose in addressing you. In private.’ He glared at John.

Lucretia did not take kindly to being corrected, John knew. He waited for the girl's retort. But instead her voice sounded a new eager note.