by Anne O'Brien
I stood, my heart beating fast, aware of nothing but my own unfortunate apparel, the heap of the disreputable mantle at my feet. But the King was not looking at me. Was I not more poorly clad than any of the servants I had seen in the palace? He would think—if he thought at all—that I was a beggar come to receive alms from the palace kitchens. Even the raptor eyed me as if I might be vermin worth eating.
The King swept his arm out in a grand gesture. “Out! All of you!” The dogs obediently vanished through the door in a rush of excitement. “Will—I’ve been looking at the site for the bathhouse you proposed.…” He was close enough to clip Wykeham in an affectionate manner on his shoulder. “Where’ve you been?”
I might as well not have been there. I was of less importance than the cold-blooded killer whose feathers he was smoothing with casual affection.
“I’ve been to St. Mary’s at Barking, Sire.” Wykeham smiled.
“Barking? Why in God’s name?”
“Business for the Queen, Sire. A new chantry.”
The King nodded. “Yes, yes. I’d forgotten. It gives her comfort, and—before God!—precious little does.” At last he cast a cursory eye over me. “Who’s this? Someone I employ?” Removing the beaver hat with its brooch and feather, he inclined his head in grave acknowledgment, even though he thought I was a serving wench. His gaze traveled over my face in a cursory manner. I made another belated curtsy. The King tilted his chin at Wykeham, having made some judgment on me. “St. Mary’s, you said. Have you helped one of the sisters to escape, Will?”
Wykeham smiled dryly. “The Queen sent for her.”
Those sharp blue eyes returned. “One of her waifs and strays, perhaps. To be rescued for her own good. What’s your name, girl?”
“Alice, Sire.”
“Glad to escape?”
“Yes, Sire.” It was heartfelt, and must have sounded it.
And Edward laughed, a sound of great joy that made me smile too. “So would I be. Serving God’s all very well, but not every hour of every day. Do you have talents?” He frowned at me as if he could not imagine it. “Play a lute?” I shook my head. “Sing? My wife likes music.”
“No, Sire.”
“Well, I suppose she has her reasons.” He was already losing interest, turning away. “And if it makes her happy…Come here!”
I started, thinking that he meant me, but he clicked his fingers at one of the rangy alaunts that had slunk back into the Hall and was following some scent along the edge of a tapestry. It obeyed to fawn and rub against him as he twisted his fingers into its collar. “Tell Her Majesty, Will— No, on second thought, you come with me. You’ve completed your task for the Queen. I’ve demands on your time for my new bathhouse.” He raised his voice. “Joscelyn! Joscelyn!”
A man approached from where he had been waiting discreetly beside the screen.
“Yes, Sire.”
“Take this girl to the Queen. She has sent for her. Now, Will…” They were already knee-deep in planning. “I think there’s the perfect site.…Let me get rid of these dogs and birds.…” Whistling softly to the raptor on his wrist, the King headed to the door. Wykeham followed. They left me without a second look. Both of them. Why would they not?
Sir Joscelyn, who I was to learn was the royal steward, beckoned me to follow him, but I hesitated and looked back over my shoulder. Wykeham was nodding, my last view of him gesturing with his hands as if describing the size and extent of the building he envisaged. They laughed together, the King’s strong voice overlaying Wykeham’s softer responses. And then he was gone, as if my last friend on earth had deserted me. My only friend. And of course he wasn’t, but who else did I know here? I would not forget his brusque kindness. As for the King, I had expected a crown or at least a chain of office. Not a pack of dogs and a hawk. But there was no denying the sovereignty that sat as lightly on his shoulders as a summer mantle.
“Come on, girl. I haven’t got all day.”
I sighed and followed the steward to discover what would become of me as one of the Queen’s habitual waifs and strays. I stuffed the rosary that I still clutched into the bosom of my overgown and followed as I was bidden.
The Queen’s apartments were silent. Finding no one in any of the antechambers to whom he could hand me over, Sir Joscelyn rapped on a door, was bidden to enter, and did so, drawing me with him. I found myself on the threshold of a large sun-filled room so full of color and activity and soft chatter, of feminine glamour, that it took my breath, more than even the grandeur of the Great Hall. The sheer vibrancy of it. Here was every hue and tint I could imagine, overlapping, entirely pleasing to the eye, creating butterflies of the women who filled the room. I stared. It was ill-mannered, certainly, but I couldn’t stop from staring at so beguiling a scene. There they were, chattering like bright finches as they stitched, books and board games at hand for those who wished, not an enshrouding wimple or brow-hugging veil amongst them. Here was a whole world of which I had no knowledge, to enchant ear and eye. The ladies talked and laughed. Someone was singing to the clear notes of a lute. There was no silence here.
I could not see the Queen in their midst.
The steward cast an eye and discovered the face he sought.
“My lady.” His bow was perfection. Learning fast, I curtsied. “I would speak with Her Majesty.”
Princess Isabella looked up from the lute she was playing, but her fingers continued to strum idly over the strings. Now I knew the source of her beautiful fairness: She was her father’s daughter in height and coloring.
“Her Majesty is indisposed, Joscelyn. Can it wait?”
“I was commanded to bring this person to Her Majesty.” He nudged me forward with haughty condescension. I curtsied again.
“Why?” Her gaze remained on the lute strings. She was not the King’s daughter in kindness.
“Wykeham brought her, my lady.”
The Princess’s eyes lifted to take in my person. “Who are you?”
“Alice, my lady.” There was no welcome here, not even a memory of who I was. “From St. Mary’s Abbey at Barking, my lady.”
A line dug between Isabella’s brows, then smoothed. “I remember. The girl with the rosary—the one who worked in the kitchens or some such…”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Her Majesty sent for you?”
Her fingers strummed over the lute strings again and her foot tapped impatiently. “I suppose I must do something with you.” The glint in her eye, I decided, was not friendly.
One of the ladies approached to put her hand on the Princess’s shoulder with the confidence of long acquaintance. “Play for us, Isabella. We have a new song.”
“With pleasure. Take the girl to the kitchens, Joscelyn. Give her a bed and some food. Then put her to work. I expect that’s what Her Majesty intended.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Isabella had already given her attention to the ladies and their new song. The steward bowed himself out and took me with him, the door closing on that magical scene in the solar. I had not managed to step beyond the threshold, and I was shaken by a sudden desire to do so, to be part of the life that went on behind that closed door. I would like that colorful and intimate world for myself.
Sir Joscelyn strode off without a word, expecting me to follow, and I did. I should be grateful that I was being given food and a place to sleep. I would be grateful. Would life as a kitchen wench at Havering-atte-Bower be better or worse than as a conversa in the Abbey at Barking? Would it be better than life as a drudge in the Perrers household? I was about to find out, thanks to the effortless malice of Princess Isabella, for I knew, beyond doubt, that the Queen had not brought me all the way from Barking to pluck chickens in her kitchen. It was all Isabella’s fault. I knew an enemy when I saw one.
“This girl, Master Humphrey…” The steward’s expression away from the solar spoke his contempt for such as I. “Another of Her Majesty’s gutter sweepings to live off our charity.”
<
br /> A grunt was all the reply he got. Master Humphrey was wielding a cleaver on the carcass of a pig, splitting it down the backbone with practiced skill.
“The Lady said to bring her to you.”
The cook stopped, midchop, and looked up under grizzled brows. “And what, may I ask, do I do with her?”
“Feed her. Give her a bed. Clothe her and put her to work.”
“Ha! Look around you, Jos! What do you see?”
I looked, although the instruction was not for me. The kitchen was awash with activity: On all sides scullions, spit boys, pot boys, bottle washers applied themselves with a racket as if all hell had broken loose. The heat was overpowering from the ovens and open fires. I could already feel sweat beginning to trickle down my spine and dampen my hair beneath my hood.
“What?” Sir Joscelyn growled. I thought he did not approve of the liberty taken with his name.
“I don’t employ girls, Jos! See? They’re not strong enough. Good enough for the dairy and serving the dishes. But. Not. Here.” The cook emphasized each word with a down sweep of his ax.
“Well, you do now. Princess Isabella’s orders. Kitchens, she said!”
Another grunt. “And what the Lady wants…!”
“Exactly!”
Sir Joscelyn duly abandoned me in the middle of the teeming life of Havering’s kitchens. I recognized the activities—the cleaning, the scouring, the chopping and stirring—but my experience was a pale shadow to this. The noise was ear-shattering. Exhilarating. Shouts and laughter, hoots of ridicule, bellowed orders, followed inevitably by oaths and complaints. There seemed to be little respect from the kitchen lads, but the cook’s orders were carried out with a promptness that suggested a heavy hand if they transgressed his line of what was acceptable. And the food. So much of it…My belly rumbled at the sight. As for the scents of roasting meat, of succulent joints…
“Don’t stand there like a bolt of cloth.”
The cook, throwing down his ax with a clatter, gave me no more than a passing look, but the scullions did, with insolent grins and crude gestures. I might not have much experience of such signs with tongues and fingers—except occasionally in the market between a whore and a dissatisfied customer—but it did not take much imagination. They made my cheeks glow with a heat that was not from the fire.
“Sit there.” Master Humphrey pressed down on my shoulder with a giant hand, and so I sat at the center board, sharing it with the pig. A bowl of thick stew was dumped unceremoniously in front of me, a spoon pushed into my hand, and a piece of stale wastel bread thrown down on the table within reach.
“Eat, then—and fast. There’s work to be done.”
I ate, without stopping. The sin of gluttony was swept aside. I drank a cup of ale handed to me. I had not realized how hungry I was.
“Put this on.”
As he carried a tray of round loaves to thrust into one of the two ovens, Master Humphrey held out a large apron of stained linen. It was intended for someone much larger than I. I hitched it ’round my waist, or I would have tripped on it, and was knotting the strings when the cook returned.
“Now! Let me look at you!” I stood before him. “What did you say your name was?”
“Alice.”
“Alice! Well, then, Alice, no need to keep your eyes on your feet here or you’ll fall on your arse.” His expression was jaundiced. “You’re not very big.”
“She’s big enough. For what I’ve in mind!” said one of the scullions, a large lad with tow hair. A guffaw of crude laughter followed.
“Shut it, Sim. And keep your hands to yourself or…” Master Humphrey seized and wielded his meat cleaver with quick chopping movements. “Pay them no heed, girl.” He took my hands in his, turned them over. “Hmm. What can you do?”
I did not think it mattered what I said, given the continuing obscenities from the two lads struggling to manhandle a side of venison onto a spit. I had already been judged. I would be given the lowliest of tasks. I would be a butt of jokes and innuendo.
“Come on, girl! I’ve never yet met a woman with nothing to say for herself.”
So I would. I would state my case. I would not hide. So far, I had been moved about like the bolt of cloth he had called me, but if this was to be my future, I would not sink into invisibility. With Signora Damiata I had controlled my manner, because to do otherwise would have called down retribution. Here I knew instinctively that I must stand up for myself as I had never done before.
“I can do that, Master Humphrey. And that.” I pointed at the washing and scouring going on in a tub of water. “I can do that.” A small lad was piling logs on the fire.
“So could an imbecile.” The cook aimed a kick at the lad at the fire, who grinned back. “No skills, then.”
“I can make bread. I can kill those.” Chickens clucked unsuspectingly in an osier basket by the hearth. “I can do that.” I pointed to an older man who was gutting a fish, scooping the innards into a basin with the flat of his hand. “I can make a tincture to cure a cough. And I can make a…”
“My, my. What an addition to my kitchen.” Master Humphrey gripped his belt and made a mocking little bow. He did not believe half of what I said.
“I can keep an inventory of your foodstuffs.” I was not going to shut up unless he ordered me to. “I can tally your books and accounts.”
“A miracle, by the Holy Virgin.” The mockery went up by a notch. “What is such a gifted mistress of all crafts doing in my kitchen?” The laughter at my expense expanded too. “Let’s start with this for now.”
I was put to work raking the hot ashes from the ovens and scouring the fat-encrusted baking trays. No different from the Abbey or the Perrers household at all.
But it was different, and I relished it. Here was life at its coarsest and most vivid, not a mean existence ruled by silence and obedience with every breath I took. This was no living death. Not that I enjoyed the work—it was hard and relentless and punishing under the eyes of Master Humphrey and Sir Joscelyn—but here was no dour disapproval or use of a switch if I sullied Saint Benedict rule, or caught Damiata’s caustic eye. Everyone had something to say about every event or rumor that touched on Master Humphrey’s kitchen. I swear he could discuss the state of the realm as well as any great lord, while slitting the gizzard of a peacock. It was a different world. I was now the owner of a straw pallet in a cramped attic room with two of the maids who strained the milk and made the huge rounds of cheese in the dairy. I was given a blanket, a new shift and kirtle—new to me, at any event—a length of cloth to wrap ’round my hair, and a pair of rough shoes.
Better than a lay sister at St. Mary’s? By the Virgin it was!
I listened as I toiled. The scullions gossiped from morn till night, covering the whole range of the royal family, and I lapped it up. Countess Joan, who had married her prince, was little better than a whore. The Queen was ill, the King protective. The King was well past the days of his much-lauded victory on the battlefield of Crécy against the bloody French, but still he was a man to be admired. Whilst Isabella! A madam, refusing every sensible marriage put to her! The King should have taken a whip to her sides! Gascony and Aquitaine, our possessions across the channel, were in revolt. Ireland was simmering like a pot of soup. Now, the buildings of the man Wykeham. At Westminster, water directed to the kitchens ran direct from a spigot into a bowl! May it come to Havering soon, pray God.
Meanwhile I was sent to haul water from the well twenty times a day. Master Humphrey had no need for me to read or tally. I swept and scoured and chopped, burned my hands, singed my hair, and emptied chamber pots. I lifted and carried and swept up. And I worked even harder to keep the lascivious scullions and pot boys at a distance. I learned fast. By God, I did!
Sim was the biggest lout of them all, with his fair hair and leering smile.
I did not need any warning. I had seen Sim’s version of romantic seduction when he trapped one of the serving wenches against the door of the woo
d store. It had not been enjoyment on her face as he had grunted and labored, his hose around his ankles. I did not want his greasy hands, or any other part of his body, on me. The stamp of a foot on an unprotected instep, a sharp elbow to a gut kept the human vermin at bay for the most part. Unfortunately it was easy for Sim and his slimy crowd to stalk me in the pantry or the cellar. His arm clipped my waist once, and did so a dozen times within the first week.
“How about a kiss, Alice?” he wheedled, his foul breath hot against my neck.
I punched his chest with my fist, and not lightly. “You’ll get no kiss from me!”
“Who else will kiss you?” he demanded, followed by the usual chorus of appreciation from the crude, grinning mouths.
“Not you!”
“You’re an ugly bitch, but you’re better than a beef carcass.”
“You’re not, slimy Sim. I’d sooner kiss a carp from the pond. Now, back off—and take your gargoyles with you.” I had discovered a talent for wordplay and a sharp tongue, and used them indiscriminately, along with my elbows. Self-preservation was a wonderful spur.
“You’ll not get better than me.” He ground his groin, fierce with arousal, against my hip.
I gave up on the banter. My knee slamming against his privates loosened his hold well enough. “Keep your hands to yourself! Or I’ll take Master Humphrey’s boning knife to your balls! We’ll roast them for supper with garlic and rosemary!”
I was not unhappy. But I was sorry not to be pretty. And my talents were not used. How much skill did it take to empty the chamber pots onto the midden?
Then all was danger, without warning. Two weeks of the whirlwind of kitchen life at Havering had lulled me into carelessness. And on that day I had been taken up with the noxious task of scrubbing down the chopping block where the joints of meat were dismembered.
“And when you’ve done that, fetch a basket of scallions from the storeroom—and see if you can find some sage in the garden. Can you recognize it?” Master Humphrey shouted after me, still leaning toward the scathing.
“Yes, Master Humphrey.” Any fool can recognize sage. I wrung out the cloth, relieved to escape the heat and the sickening stench of fresh blood.