John Saturnall's Feast (29 page)

John directed Simeon to watch his liquor, took an iron and placed it in the fire. Then he hurried to the cold larder. At the door he came face to face with Coake. The youth was sweatin, Adam's bucket of cream dangling from one arm, the yellow peaks standing up stiff. They eyed each other in the doorway.

‘What are you doing here?’ John said.

Coake's face was a picture of injured innocence. ‘Is it not plain?’ He glanced down at the cream.

‘Hard work,’ offered John, still suspicious.

‘Oh, it was worth it,’ Coake replied airily. ‘Catch it cold. That's what I say. Remember?’

The older boy grinned and slid past him.
Catch it cold?
He did remember. But from where? When Coake had gone, John craned his neck up to the shelf and looked down into Tantalus's pool. The liquor had not set in either. But it would, John knew. The crown had toppled over for some reason. He reset it in place.

In the kitchen, tiny meat pies topped with spinach and walnuts were loaded onto trays. Platters of mutton balls spiced with saffron and garnished with carved lemons waited beside them. Quiller's serving men toted plates of thin-sliced beef filled with artichoke and pistachio paste, then hollowed manchet rolls filled with minced eggs, sweet herbs, cinnamon and salt . . .

The spiced wine had already gone up. The cooks whirled from task to task, handing dishes to the waiting serving men: musk melons in syrup, a pottage of capons, boiled pigeons in sauce, a hash of chicks with a sallet, roasted fawn with an Italian farce then a custard quivering on a green Pearmain tart . . .

When Master Scovell sent for the great tiered dessert John knew his own moment had come. John bade Simeon put a second iron in the fire then he and Philip hurried out to the cold larder. The liquor had set clear. Together, they peered into the depths of Tantalus's pool. The crown, coins and jewelled ring lay at the bottom.

Philip cleared a space for him on the bench beside the hearth. John took a cloth, gripped the iron and drew it from the fire.

A hand's breadth above, John told himself He lowered the iron to the surface and began to pass it to and fro, watching for the moment when the surface quivered. From the corner of his eye, he saw four men inching forward, balancing Scovell and Vanian's creation on a stretcher. They crouched so that the topmost tier might clear the arched entrance.

‘Steady,’ warned Scovell.

Gripping the hot iron, John worked over his dishes. Pass by pass, the surfaces turned to glass. When the iron cooled, John looked for the second one. Scovell and Vanian were pouring possets into pastry cups set into the upper tiers of their creation, Luke Hobhouse and four others rotating it slowly. But the hearth was bare. The hot iron was nowhere in sight.

‘Simeon,’ John hissed. ‘The iron.’

The kitchen boy's expression told him all he needed to know. ‘Master Saturnall, I . . . I forgot.’

‘Forgot? Find one!’ John ordered. But Simeon stood frozen by his mistake. ‘Hurry!’ John barked.

Startled, Simeon turned and began to run, blind to the chafing dishes, the pot crane, the stacked billets of wood. Blind too to Scovell's dessert. John watched, horrified, as Simeon collided with the rearmost man. He saw the man stagger, the corner sliding from his grip. From the bench behind, Colin turned and lunged for the wavering base. John reached out too. But the great creation began to tilt, then slide, then topple and tumble, the pastry tiers crumbling and posset cups spilling, the creams and sacks slithering and slipping, the marchpane animals leaping down followed by the King and Queen to smash on the flagstone floor.

For an instant, the whole kitchen was silent. All looked at a dessert-spattered Simeon. All except Scovell. His gaze was fixed upon John.

‘I made him run,’ John said in a flat voice. He looked down at the smashed pastry and the cream that ran in rivulets over the floor.

‘Patience,’ murmured Scovell.

Among the horrified faces, only the Master Cook's was calm. He pointed his ladle at John's two dishes, waiting on the bench.

‘Which of these is the better?’

In a daze, John pointed to the clearest amber jelly.

‘Good enough for His Majesty, would you say?’

‘But Master Scovell,’ Vanian objected. ‘Saturnall is barely a cook!’

‘John is equal to the task,’ Scovell said. ‘Are you not, John?’

John made himself nod. Scovell rapped his ladle in his hand.

‘Send it up.’

The serving men were waiting, the desserts laid out on every table and bench. As the last round of dishes went up, the noise from the Great Hall sank to an appreciative murmur then gained in volume, becoming an excited buzz of chatter. Scovell gestured to the remaining dish, still sitting on the bench.

‘Would you serve your master as well as the King, John Saturnall?’

John took a knife and broke the surface, felt the jelly drag on the blade. It had set perfectly. He scooped out a slice and presented it to Scovell. The Master Cook picked up a wobbling cube and chewed. A contented look came over him. But then Scovell's face changed. He grasped a spoon and drove it into another part of the dish. His expression turned to alarm. He spun on his heel and shouted up the stairs.

‘Call it back!’

But the last serving man had gone. Scovell turned on John. The smile had vanished. In its place, the Master Cook wore a horrified look.

‘What have you done?’

‘Master Scovell?’

‘Salt!’ exclaimed Scovell. ‘You have poisoned it with salt!’

John felt his stomach sink, a mixture of bewilderment and dread contending within him. The men and boys of the kitchen turned to him, their faces disbelieving or dismayed. All except one. As John looked about desperately, he caught sight of Coake. And as their eyes met, he understood. Coake sprinkling the birds with bay salt. His retreat to the larder with the bucket of cream. The look of injured innocence and his strange good cheer.
Oh, it was worth it. Catch it cold. That's what I say
. . . It had been Coake's promise on his first night in the kitchen. His pledge of revenge. Now he had taken that revenge. With a cry of fury, John hurled himself at the older boy. But his hands had barely closed about Coake's throat before he was pulled off.

‘He has lost his senses!’ exclaimed Coake as a shocked Mister Underley held John back.

‘First you taint the King's dish. Now you fight in the kitchen?’

John turned to Scovell. But the Master Cook wore a face of stone.

‘Master Scovell . . .’ John began.

Before he could say more, Mister Pouncey appeared at the foot of the stairs. A richly dressed courtier stood behind him.

‘His Majesty spat!’ the steward exclaimed. ‘His Majesty spat it out!’

Mister Pouncey glared at Scovell as if too furious to utter another word. Beside him, wearing a chain like the steward and a rich fur cloak, the King's man looked on grimly. John saw a long scar running from his mouth up the side of his face.

‘His Majesty orders its author be brought before him,’ said Sir Philemon.

Scovell eyed John, his expression stony. Suddenly John felt he did not know the man. He had never known him. The Master Cook nodded to Sir Philemon.

‘Take him up.’

A screen of grey-blue fur filled John's vision. His heart thudded in his chest. The scarred man led the way up the stairs, Mister Pouncey's footsteps tapping lightly behind. At the top, Sir Philemon turned.

‘You have displeased the King,’ he said in a hard voice. ‘And that displeasure redounds to me. You will not repeat that error. Do you understand, kitchen boy?’

John nodded.

‘You will kneel before him. You will not look up unless he gives you leave. You will not speak unless he asks. You will address him as “Your Majesty”. At the rightful moment you will beg forgiveness.’

The scar was an angry red line. John could feel the man's breath against his face. Then the courtier turned to Mister Pouncey.

‘All would be well, you promised,’ Sir Philemon hissed. ‘The kitchens, the cellars, the King's rooms. If you could not offer a palace, you would at least scrape the muck out of the barn. You gave your word. And I, in turn, gave mine. Now this.’

Suddenly John felt the courtier's hard hand grasp his neck. He was pulled down the passageway towards the screen at the end. As the clatter of voices and plates grew louder, Sir Philemon confronted John again.

‘See this smile, kitchen boy?’ His free hand rose and for a moment John thought the man would strike him. But Sir Philemon stroked a fingertip along the red line of his scar. ‘Disappoint me and I will give you one of your own.’

A push sent John stumbling forward. He rounded the screen and entered the Great Hall.

The long tables swayed like boats in a sea, crowded with faces which surged back and forth. A wall of gleaming swords and spears rose before him. The High Table ran across the far end of the Hall, raised on a dais. John snatched a glimpse of the lords and ladies.

‘Eyes down!’ hissed Sir Philemon. He marched John between the tables. When they reached the front of the dais there was silence. Then a voice spoke from the High Table. A voice John knew.

‘B-bring him up
,
Sir Philemon.’

A melancholy face regarded John. A neatly shaped beard covered the man's chin. Of course the serving man's face had seemed familiar last night, John realised. He had seen it the first day he had arrived at the Manor, staring out of the news-sheet that Ben Martin had purchased. Now last night's stammering servant regarded him from the centre of the High Table wearing a hat of rich black velvet trimmed with two lolling feathers and a black doublet of shiny silk. One of the King's hands toyed with a spoon, the other tapped the side of a great round platter: the part-eaten dish for King Tantalus.

‘Behold,’ he said, ‘the cook who could d-do no wrong.’

The courtiers tittered. As Sir Philemon led him up on the dais, John recalled his words from the previous night. Why had he not simply expelled the intruders? On one side of His Majesty a flushed Piers Callock rested an elbow amidst the glittering silver. On the other sat two women dressed in rich silks and glittering necklaces. One wore a jewelled tiara. The other more resembled a porcelain doll, her face masked with powder and her hair dressed in elaborate black ringlets. Two dark eyes peered out from the expanse of white, varied only by a black dot on her cheek. A dress of silvery blue silk billowed around her. Sinking to his knees, John saw with a shock that the doll was Lucretia.

‘So, Master Saturnall, you would cook for the King?’

As His Majesty spoke, more titters ran up and down the table.

‘Your Majesty, the mistake was my own . . .’

The King tapped the dish before him. ‘Was it? Surely the error was mine? In eating this . . . this salt-mine.’

John heard the titters turn to laughter. Piers's hearty guffaws sounded loudly. Squinting through his lashes, he saw Sir William smile. Among the diners at the High Table only Lucretia appeared unmoved. John felt his cheeks redden.

‘Well might you b-blush, Master Cook,’ the King pressed on. ‘But what d-do you suggest? Look up, Master Saturnall.’

The laughter turned uncertain then died away as the King leaned forward. Kneeling on the planks of the dais, John looked up.

‘Are you too floundering in this sea of salt?’

Sea of salt, thought John. He searched for the memory. What had his mother said as they stood together overlooking the marshlands of the Levels? The brine floating harmlessly over the sweet water beneath . . .

‘Nothing to say, Master Saturnall?’ asked the King. He held up his hand for silence. In his memory, John heard the man's words. But it was his own voice that spoke them.

‘Dip your spoon deeper, Your Majesty.’

The nearest courtiers gasped. Piers's eyebrows shot up. But the words were out. Succeeding them came a silence so complete John fancied every man and woman in the Hall could hear his heart thud. The King leaned forward, a frown gathering on his face.

‘What?’

John tried to keep his voice steady.

‘I mean only to ask, Your Majesty, what sweetness might lie beneath the sourness of the crust?’

The courtiers looked horrified. Piers watched eagerly. The Queen appeared mildly surprised. Lucretia watched too, John saw. But her expression was unreadable. The King's eyes narrowed. They were not truly sad, John saw, but shrewd. The man glanced down at the dish, a spoon abandoned in its midst.

‘Dig deeper, you say?’

John watched him sink the implement into the dish then lift out a gobbet of translucent jelly. The King's mouth opened. He chewed, his jaw working the jelly around his mouth. His face betrayed no expression. At last he swallowed. John looked up, waiting. The King raised an eyebrow. He puckered his lips. Then a broad smile spread across his face.

‘The depths are sweet indeed, Master Saturnall.’

He turned to the Queen who offered a smile. The courtiers raised their hands in pleasure. One or two clapped. Beside Piers, John fancied he saw a flicker of approval in Lucretia's face. Then the King turned to his host.

‘Sir William. I wonder if I might have the loan of this cook? I have a task for which he is fitted.’

As Sir William gave his assent, the King beckoned.

‘Here,’ he commanded. ‘Sit beside me, John Saturnall.’

John rose. The eyes of the King and Queen, their courtiers, Sir William and the officers of the Household followed him as he walked along the front of the dais. Sir Kenelm towered over the others.

‘Hurry along, Master Satumall. Before he forgets why he wanted you.’

The other courtiers tutted and frowned. Beside him, the Bishop of Carrboro lifted a fleshy hand bearing an amethyst ring and waved John on. A red-faced Sir Hector sat next to Lady Caroline. The Queen nodded vaguely to John but Lucretia stared straight ahead. Behind the King a serving man held up a stool.

‘Move along, Lord Piers,’ the King commanded the youth beside him. ‘Let Master John take his place.’ John saw Piers's face darken but the King ignored him. ‘In my father's time, a Sayer's task was to taste the King's food and pass it fit. Tonight I have learned the value of such a servant.’ The King pulled the part-eaten dish along the table. ‘Take up your spoon, Master Sayer.’