John Saturnall's Feast (30 page)

John dug and tasted. Under a layer of salt, the jelly in the depths was sweet. He began to scoop and taste, pronouncing the parts of his jelly sweet or sour. No need for his demon as he chased out the quivering gobbets from the salty chunks. Coake must have poured in half a sack. The King tasted after him, enquiring now after the dish's preparation until only the baubles remained.

‘They are biscuits, Your Majesty,’ John explained as the King crunched one of his coins. ‘They are made of a paste very heavy with sugar. It is twice baked . . .’

The King's eyes had their shrewd look again. ‘Yours is a singular dish, Master Saturnall. But what if the b-burden of a feast were set upon your shoulders?’

‘I would strive to fulfil my duty, Your Majesty.’

Sitting beside the King, he felt as he had the day Cassie had spoken up for him outside the church at Buckland. The courtiers leaned forward to peer at him. Piers still scowled but Sir Kenelm offered a wave. Then, standing behind the table, Sir Philemon rapped his spoon on a glass for silence.

‘All feasts p-propose a p-purpose,’ the King announced. ‘Now we reach our own.’

John saw the Queen lean towards Lucretia and whisper something in her ear. But her features seemed frozen, unreadable and remote.

‘How fortunate is that K-King,’ the King declared, ‘who has such men as Sir William and Sir Hector. The houses of Fremantle and Callock are among the most ancient and loyal past remembrance. A King's authority c-cannot be divided. Otherwise it dissolves like salt in water. Our w-word has ever been our pledge. Now w-we have come to the Vale of Buckland to give our blessing to a different pledge.’

The King rose. As one, the Great Hall rose with him. John stood back as the King stretched out one hand to Piers and then, reaching across the Queen, the other to Lucretia. Now John could watch the young woman at his leisure. But she looked ahead, her face a mask. Then, for a moment, the mask slipped and John glimpsed the expression he had seen in the Solar Gallery, as if she were trapped again, about to be discovered.

‘Lucretia, Lady Fremantle and P-Piers, Lord of Forham and Artois,’ the King declared. ‘I, Charles, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, do give my blessing and p-permission for this union. Let it be solemnised with rejoicing in the Vale of Buckland and let all those who rejoice sit with us on their wedding day.’ As the applause began to swell, the King turned to John. ‘And let this young cook prepare the feast.’

From
The Book of John Saturnall
: For a
Dish
of baked
Quodling Apples
served with a sweet
Cream

now the Quodling from its unruly Tree whose upper boughs ape a Stork's Nest or an ill-laid Fire. Pippins, Pearmains and Genets may be eaten rudely off the bough. Try a Quodling thus and it will prove as sour as an unwilling Bride. Yet bake such a Fruit slow and it will sweeten after a marvellous Fashion.

Take the best Fruit from free or Paradise Stocks when the Day is bright and cold. If to keep, wrap them in Ferns and pack them in a Maund. If to eat as I direct, place them in an Oven whose Sides your Hand may touch for an Instant. Leave the Quodling for a Night then slide a Peel beneath to lift it. Its Innards will be turned as soft and thick as Pea Soup. Prick it that the Steam may escape.

Next take cold Cream, warm Honey and a Ladder. Climb the Ladder. Pour the Honey and Cream at a Fall into a Pot of Gascon Wine and let it froth, the higher the better. Whisk the sweetened Cream until it stands in melting Peaks.

A baked Apple is no Kickshaw or any dainty Dish. Set this Quodling as best you may upon a Plate and pour on the Cream. Break the Two together so that the hot Temper of the Quodling meets the Cold. As the Poet wrote:

Let me feed thee such Honey-sugared Creams

As cool the Quodling's ’scaping Steam

This is a hearty Dish and is most fit for One whose Sourness wants Sweetness or One whose hot Humour wants Coolness. Or both.

T
HE COOKS, UNDER-COOKS AND
kitchen boys crowded about him, laughing, cheering and slapping him on the back. Mister Bunce presented John with a mug of ale.

‘Cook the wedding feast, John! We'll have to ask Master Palewick to lay in more salt!’

‘As much salt as you want,’ Henry pledged from the other side of the kitchen.

John glugged his ale in a blur of congratulations. Even Mister Vanian conceded that John had served the Kitchen well. Then Scovell made his way through the crush and called for silence.

‘Well done, John Saturnall!’ the man announced. ‘The champion of our kitchen!’ Then he turned to John. ‘I doubted him when I should not. A true cook knows no doubt. So he has taught us tonight. And he has reaped the reward!’

As the cheers echoed in the vaulted roof, Scovell offered his hand. John hesitated for a moment but then he gripped and shook.

‘To the Kitchen!’ he called out. ‘To Master Scovell! To all of us!’

Everyone drank. Colin and Luke rolled a second barrel forward. The cooks crowded around.

‘Where's Coake?’ John asked Philip in the midst of the crush.

‘Gone,’ Philip said. ‘Scovell found the salt in a pocket-bag tied around his waist. The look on his face . . .’

The marquees deflated and sank to the ground. Ambling horses were harnessed and saddled. The royal exit was as piecemeal as the entrance had been grand. When the last squadron of royal servants had trotted up the drive and disappeared through the gatehouse, John was summoned by Scovell. Entering the chamber, he saw a stout woman who carried at her waist a heavy ring of keys. She turned with a jangle.

‘Is that Susan Sandall's boy?’

John recognised Mrs Gardiner the housekeeper. He nodded.

‘She sent him here, Mrs Gardiner,’ Scovell said from the hearth.

John shifted awkwardly as the housekeeper's eyes swept over him.

‘I can see her face in yours,’ Mrs Gardiner said approvingly. ‘A good woman. And now her boy will cook for her ladyship's wedding.’

‘So we hope,’ said Scovell. The woman looked around the chamber.

‘I haven't set foot down here since that night. Do you recall it, Master Scovell, how we drove that thieving magpie out? How long has it been?’

Magpie. John's ears twitched.

‘Eighteen years,’ Scovell answered shortly. He turned to a pan dangling over the hearth.

‘What a commotion!’ Mrs Gardiner continued. ‘The villain.’ She eyed the connecting door as if she expected the villain, whoever he was, to burst through it. She seemed about to launch into another volley of exclamations when her gaze returned to John. Her shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘Susan Sandall's son,’ she said in a curious tone, examining John's face. ‘Now you're almost grown.’

‘I am seventeen years of age,’ John said as the silence lengthened.

‘And now you'll be cooking the feast for the one your ma delivered.’ Mrs Gardiner paused and considered. ‘Just as soon as her ladyship returns to her senses.’

John looked between the Master Cook and the housekeeper.

‘Mrs Gardiner has a task for you,’ said Scovell.

‘No!’ shouted Lucretia.

‘My lady, the Fremantle Covenant is no old wives’ tale,’ Mister Pouncey explained patiently. ‘It was an oath sworn to God. Your own ancestor made the pact . . .’

‘I know the story well enough.’

‘Then your ladyship will appreciate the great peril into which she places Buckland by her current, uh, reluctance.’

‘To join myself to Piers Callock? That is not reluctance. It is disgust!’

‘Your union is His Majesty's wish.’

‘It is my father's tyranny!’

‘He wishes only that the succession continue.’

Sitting on the top step with a bowl of pottage beside her, Gemma listened through the closed door as Mister Pouncey's voice rose and fell. The patient mumble had continued for an hour now. Pole's voice followed, more strident. That was a mistake, thought Gemma. Sure enough, a loud thud interrupted the woman's voice. A moment later the door was flung open.

‘Out!’ shouted Lucretia. ‘Out, both of you!’

A red-faced Mister Pouncey hurried down the passage followed by an affronted Pole. Gemma looked up hopefully. But the door slammed shut again.

She had helped her mistress scrub off the powder and rouge. She had peeled off the beauty spot on her cheek. As she had lifted off the heavy silk of the dress, her mistress had begun to cry, bitter sobs that came from deep inside her.

‘I will not!’ the young woman had burst out. ‘Never!’

Gemma could not remember the last time she had seen Lucretia cry. Now, contemplating the lukewarm bowl, she heard a rending noise sound behind the closed door. Sheets? Visions of a knotted rope dangling down into the garden passed before Gemma's eyes. When the noise stopped, she rose and knocked softly.

‘Lucy?’

‘Go away.’

‘Lucy, it's me. It's Gemma.’

She heard the scrape of a chair. The door opened.

A headless torso lay draped over the chest. A pair of legs hung beside it. Another ripped body was slumped against the chest. Lady Whitelegs had been torn in two. Half of Lady Pimpernel flopped below her. Of Lady Silken-hair there remained only tatters and of Lady Pipkin not even that. But worse lay scattered over the floor. Through a haze of sawdust Gemma looked down on torn and crumpled pages, each one covered with familiar handwriting.

‘Oh, Lucy!’

Gemma put down the bowl and picked up a fragment.

Let me feed thee such Honey-sugared Creams

As cool the Duodling's ’scaping Steam .
. .

She knelt and began to gather up the pages. Glancing at the opened clothes chest she saw the folds of silvery-blue silk. At least the dress was unscathed.

‘Mrs Gardiner bade me bring pottage,’ Gemma said when she was finished.

‘Pour it in the chamber pot.’

‘But, Lucy . . .’

‘Tell them I have resumed my fast.’

‘We only exchange our freedoms, Lady Lucy,’ the Queen had murmured in her ear at the feast. ‘We only exchange our desires.’