Child of the May (6 page)

An angry maid and a young kitchen lad ran out from the castle kitchens. Their aprons were smeared with fat and flour, sleeves rolled up, faces pink and sweating.

“See! It’s too late, they’re all going,” the maid cried.

“Nay, here’s one.” The lad caught her arm and pointed to the Mansfield potter’s stall. “And look – a pile of decent platters left. Will you wait a moment, good potter?”

“I’ll go and fetch my lady,” said the maid.

Magda felt her heart thudding fast. Whatever was Robert up to now?

“’Tis like hell in that kitchen,” the lad complained. “You’d think we’d got enough to do finding food and drink for the King and his court, without the wolfpack arriving as well! Drink like fishes they do, and now we’ve run out of platters!” The lad pulled a fearful face and crossed himself. “Sheriff’s lady is right put out! She don’t like to spend her pennies needlessly.”

Robert shook his head wisely. “Doesn’t do to offend those fellows.”

“You’re right,” the lad answered with feeling.

“Don’t fret,” said Robert. “The potter of Mansfield shall come to thy mistress’s aid.”

The maid appeared again, with an older woman whose silver ladle thrust through her belt marked her as cook. A young page in smart velvet livery burst from the kitchen behind them, and after him followed the grandest woman that Magda had ever set eyes on.

The Sheriff’s lady was plump and at least fifty. She was dressed in crimson velvet with gold trimmings. The high waist of her gown unfortunately made her large stomach appear even rounder. A horned headress wreathed in veils had slipped slightly to the side, giving her the look of a disgruntled cow. Her fingers were covered in rings, her long nails rouged. Just like her servants she was pink and sweating, and she rubbed her jewelled hands together anxiously.

“You’d better be right,” she snapped at the cook. “Have you got my purse?” She slapped the small page on the head.

“Yes, madam,” he squeaked, holding up a leathern drawstring pouch.

“Fancy having to buy earthenware,” she muttered.

“Better than no platters at all,” the cook told her firmly.

By now she was standing before the stall and Robert bowed low to her. Magda almost curtseyed, but remembered in time and copied his deep bow.

“I hear my lady is short of platters for her guests,” Robert said. With one swift movement he gathered up the pile of good earthenware that he’d saved and spread it across the stall.

“Hmm! Not bad!” the woman cried. “Though I dare say this will cost me a pretty penny.”

“Ah no, lady.” Robert spoke quickly. A certain flinty glance at Magda warned her to say nothing, whatever came next. He gave a great sigh and smiled boldly at the Sheriff’s wife. “For such a lovely lady the price is . . . nothing at all. It is an honour to serve such beauty. A gift from the potter of Mansfield.”

All the servants gaped and Magda had great trouble keeping still and quiet, but the Sheriff’s wife went pinker still and giggled. She flapped her pink bejewelled hand at Robert.

“Why, Sir Potter,” she said, “I fear you are a very wicked fellow. I accept your gift and . . . you shall dine with us tonight.”

“Ah no!” Robert was all modesty and hesitation.

“Yes, you shall – you and your lad! Come pack up your stall and fetch in these pots. I shall make space for you amongst my guests.”

And with those words she swept away, leaving her servants open-mouthed. But Robert was not for wasting time; he clapped his hands, smiling wickedly at Magda. “Come on, boy! We’re dining at the castle.”

The kitchen lad had spoken truly, for the castle kitchens were indeed like hell. Cauldrons bubbled over fires, suspended from great chains hooked on to wooden beams. Huge spit roasts of meat flamed and spluttered on the hearths. The place was crammed with servants squabbling and shouting and getting in each other’s way. Torches were fixed to brackets on the walls, but they gave off little light and a lot of smoke. A young servant girl heaved a steaming bucket of water past Magda, slopping it on her arm and making her gasp.

“Sorry, sir,” she cried. “But it’s no good you standing there, I shall be back for another in a moment. ’Tis for the King’s bath tub. Terrible clean and fussy, he is. Says he must bathe before he eats. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“Come,” said Robert taking hold of Magda’s arm. “Come stand at the end of the great hall and see if our grand lady remembers to give us a place.”

He led Magda through the madness of the kitchens and up the steps into the enormous hall. Already people were gathering for the evening meal. Set upon a raised platform at the far end, the high table was empty. Six long trestles laid out in rows were filling up with soldiers, ladies in waiting and guests of lesser importance.

“Where shall we sit?” Magda asked, half-fascinated, half-alarmed by the excitement of it all.

“Just stand and watch,” said Robert. “That suits me well for the moment. Ah yes . . . as I hoped.”

Magda followed his gaze and saw a young woman in a homespun gown leading a frail old lady. Isabel and Matilda, their poverty more apparent than ever in such gaudy surroundings.

“Watch them closely,” said Robert. “Ah, I see that help arrives.”

Magda could not stop herself from smiling at the sight of Brother James slowly parading up and down the hall, still handing out blessings in a most condescending manner.

“Who could have invited him?” she wondered.

Robert snorted and grimaced. “Nobody,” he said. “Priest’s garb and knowledge of the Mass will take the man anywhere.”

“Where is Much?” Magda asked.

“Guarding my potter’s wagon, up by the northern gate, I hope.”

Trumpets sounded and everyone rushed to take their seats at the trestle tables. Robert pushed Magda towards the long bench set opposite Langden’s ladies. There was a scramble to sit down, and, for a moment Magda and Isabel looked straight at each other. Just the slight raising of an eyebrow told them that Isabel recognised her fellow guests.

The trumpet sounded again and everyone struggled to their feet as the King and his queen arrived and took their seats. The Sheriff and his wife bowed and curtseyed profusely, fussing nervously as King John sat down. Magda strained her neck to stare at the man whose cruelty was feared throughout the land.

“He’s thin and small,” she whispered. “And look at the Queen. She’s nowt but a lass!”

Before Robert could reply, Magda felt a heavy hand upon her shoulder.

“Out of my way, lad. How dare you sit before My Lady!”

Magda yelped as she was cuffed over the ear and thrust aside. A powerfully built, heavy-jowled man with a close-shaved chin bent across the table and snatched up Isabel’s reluctant hand to kiss.

“Get out,” Robert whispered, pulling Magda along behind him towards the bottom of the next table where Brother James sat.

“He hit me,” Magda cried, red-faced and rubbing her hurt. “Aren’t you going to stand up for me?”

Robert’s face had gone white. His voice hissed with anger as he spoke. “I promise you this, my child: death shall be too good for that one. But now is not the time.”

“Who is he?” Magda demanded.

“Hugh FitzRanulf,” he told her. “Leader of the wolfpack. Dealer in misery!”

Brother James quickly made room for them on the bench beside him and the meal began. Though the table was groaning with food, Magda could not eat. Her head thudded and her stomach heaved. Excitement had turned to fear.

“Can we not slip away now?” she whispered, suddenly longing for the wildness and safety of the Forestwife’s clearing.

Brother James seemed to be calmly eating up everything within reach, but Robert spoke low and answered her. “We’ve not done what we came for yet. You’d do best to eat. Who knows when we’ll eat again! Here, share my trencher and cup.”

Reluctantly seeing the sense in his words, Magda took a sip of heady spiced wine and began picking at a leg of roast guinea fowl. She tried not to look at Robert’s scarred cheek and slit ear. In the rush to find a seat, she’d sat down on his right-hand side, something she usually avoided. The meal continued and the servants were in and out of the kitchen, bringing platters piled high with roast swan and heron. Gentle strumming of lutes from the musicians up in the gallery soothed her a little, as did the sweet scent of violets and green herbs strewn on the floor. Her spirits lifted at the delicious sight of rose-scented comfits stuffed with candied orange peel, rich creamy frumenty porridge, and hazelnuts in marzipan with honeyed dates.

Though Robert had told her to eat, he seemed distracted and ate little himself. Magda sensed a tension in the man. He looked up towards the top table and silently reached out to touch Brother James. Though the fat monk did not move a muscle, Magda saw that he was instantly alert, all pleasure in food forgotten.

“A messenger!” Robert told him. “Could it be they have discovered John and the stolen horse?”

Suddenly the King was on his feet and flinging his wine cup across the table so that the strong red liquid splashed across the fine gowns of the ladies in waiting.

“Matilda! Damn the woman!” he screamed. “I’ll have her now!”