He glanced back at the low door then smiled to himself.
‘There seemed no part of Creation she did not comprehend,’ the man said quietly. ‘Simple country woman though she was, she understood the Feast as though it were part of her own nature. I thought my search was at its end. We would keep the Feast again, I urged her. We would keep it together . . .’
Simple country woman, pondered John. How much had his mother revealed to Scovell? A new light had appeared in the Master Cook's eye. He began to speak of John's mother's knowledge, of the shared understanding that forged a bond between them. Then his shoulders slumped.
‘But we argued. The Feast belonged to all, your mother maintained. When those who served and those who ate came together, only then could the Feast be kept.’ Scovell shook his head, though whether in disagreement or regret, John could not tell. ‘Were we only servants then, I challenged her? Kings built their castles. Bishops raised cathedrals. Yet there were cooks before either. What was their monument?’ He looked up from the flames, his eyes bright. Suddenly part of John wanted to tell Scovell what he knew. Yet another part held him back.
‘The Feast belongs to its cook,’ Scovell declared. ‘So I maintained. But Susan, your mother . . . She would never reveal her knowledge promiscuously.’ A troubled look came over him. ‘It was taken from her. Plucked from her by a magpie. But instead of bright trinkets, this magpie stole words. From a book.’
Magpie, thought John. That word again. His mother's book. As Scovell's eyes searched his face, John remembered the charred pages flaking in the fire.
‘There is no book, Master Scovell.’
The Master Cook held his eye for a moment that seemed to John to last an hour. But at last he gave a nod.
‘Not all books are written, are they, John?’
John remembered the Feast that he and his mother had conjured each night, the dishes rising into the cold air. ‘I do not know, Master Scovell.’
‘Then what does your demon advise?’
Was the Master Cook mocking him? A flicker of annoyance stirred in John. ‘He keeps his counsel, Master Scovell.’
‘He is wise. Would that I had kept my own counsel that night.’
John thought of the Master Cook's absences. Not for Lady Anne, he realised. They were for Susan Sandall. He imagined his mother standing in this room, keeping her counsel as Scovell sought to persuade her.
‘The Feast belongs to its cook, I told your mother,’ Scovell said. ‘It was for all, she answered. Those were her last words to me. I understood her nature too late. But she understood mine better. When she left, I believed the Feast was lost for ever.’ He looked up at John. ‘Then you came.’
The Master Cook eyed the crowded shelves, the row of gallipots half-hidden in shadow then the low door that connected his chamber to the room beyond.
‘She wrote her book,’ Scovell murmured and it seemed to John that he spoke to the dead woman as much as to himself ‘But not on paper with ink. She wrote it in you. And she sent you here. She sent you tome.’
”. . . the Baubles of a King such as golden Coins baked hard in Biscuit, or a jewelled Ring or a Crown of Sugar-candy.”
From The Book of John Saturnall: A Dish of Candied Baubles fit for Two Late Kings
Receipt is but the Promise of a Dish but a Dish is the Measure of its Cook. Know King Tantalus as one who piled the Plate too high when he boiled his Son Pelops and served him to Zeus. For that higher King spat out his portion and chained Tantalus in a Pool where his Circumstances did contrive to tease him; the Water shrank when he stooped to drink and the Grapes sprang away when he reached to eat. Some say King Tantalus's Fault was to steal Ambrosia for Mankind and others aver it was Nectar. Whichever his Sin, that ancient Cook and I did once conspire in a Dish that would have brought my Ruin as surely as his did the Sire of Pelops. For if Hazard is the mightiest Demon in the Kitchen, Malice is yet his worthy Rival, so I discovered.
First make a Paste short and rich with cold Butter and bake it in a round Mould as great as you dare. While it cools manufacture the Baubles of a King such as golden Coins baked hard in Biscuit, or a jewelled Ring or a Crown of Sugar-candy. Let these Toys shine with a hard Glaze. They will lie at the bottom of Tantalus's Pool.
Make its Water of amber Jelly set with Hartshorn and sweetened with Madeira Sugar and clarify that Jelly over a Chafing Dish of low Coals. But now is the Time to guard against Hazard. Such a Liquor will blacken in the Blink of an Eye if it be not watched and the Pan will spoil too. Next, the glaze. Some good Time before, set two Irons in the Fire till they glow near red-hot. Pass one slowly back and forth as many as a score of Times, replace it in the Flames and take up the next and so again until the Surface begins to ripple and melt and yet retains that Clarity that so tempted Tantalus. Leave these to set. But guard now against Malice, for he too will have his Way . . .
THE KITCHEN BOY PULLED a fistful of feathers from the bird, grunted and stuffed them into the sack at his feet. Turning on his stool, he glanced towards the hearth. Among the cob-irons and spit-poles, pot-hooks and pot cranes stood the chafing dish.
Charcoal glowed under a copper skillet. Within the pot, slow bubbles broke the trembling surface. He had been charged to watch it that morning. He gave the pan a hesitant shake and saw the grains lurch with the slow swirl of the liquor. Then he returned to his plucking.
The breast feathers came free in downy clumps but the tail feathers appeared to have been nailed in place. The kitchen boy grunted and tugged. The bird stretched and strained, its pale yellow skin tenting out from the flesh.
‘Stop yanking!’ called out an exasperated voice from down the bench. ‘You'll break the skin.’
The cook glared then put down the knife he had been using to cut fine white sheets of pastry for the wooden paste-mould in front of him. A mere five years divided him from the kitchen boy but he shook his head now as if they were decades.
‘In my day,’ Philip Elsterstreet said in pained tones, picking up the carcass, ‘pheasants were plucked in the yard no matter the weather. Now if you grip the bird like this and pull the quills like this,’ he pulled, ‘and stop grunting and sighing perhaps you'll find the work more to your liking.’
‘Yes, Master Elsterstreet,’ the boy answered and Philip sighed himself.
‘It's Mister,’ he said. ‘Plain and simple.’ Then he nodded and under-cook and kitchen boy both looked towards the hearth. ‘And watch that pan like you were told.’
It was Simeon Parfitt's third day in the kitchen. Other cooks, the boy knew, would have given him the rough edge of their tongues. Coake would have hurled the pheasant at his head and had him scrubbing the floor where it landed. Mister Bunce's parting advice resounded in his head. ‘Keep your eyes open, Simeon. Keep your mouth shut. Don't rush at things. Stop your sighing and don't day-dream either. If you can do any task half as well as them in there, no one'll say I let you out of Firsts before time . . .’
So Simeon had paid close attention that morning. He had watched Philip Elsterstreet until he had been asked to direct his stare elsewhere. Then he had studied the under-cook who had taken up a station at the hearth and who seemed to see nothing but the chafing dish before him, arranging the charcoals then setting the skillet on top.
None of the cooks could teach him more than John Saturnall, Mister Bunce had told him. Not Adam Lockyer or Peter Pears, not Philip Elsterstreet or Phineas Campin. Certainly not Coake. So Simeon had watched closely that morning as John had stirred the skillet, brow furrowed in concentration under his thatch of curly black hair. Then Simeon's chance had come. Looking up, the under-cook had asked if the kitchen boy might do him a service?
‘Watching's all it needs,’ John had declared. ‘If it darkens, lift it off. Keep an eye on it for me, will you, Simeon?’
The boy had blushed at the use of his name. John Saturn all knew more than most of the cooks put together, Mister Bunce had continued. All except Master Scovell, of course. The under-cook rarely looked up fro
m his dishes, reaching blind for pinches of salt, or a spatula, or a jack of water. Yet he seemed never to hesitate or falter, moving about the kitchens as if he had been born there.
Simeon, by contrast, seemed always to be in some body's way. The senior kitchen boys barged him. The under-cooks swerved. Those higher up seemed not to notice his existence. He had been nudged along the benches until Master Elsterstreet had found him a spot in the corner, plucking.
Around the kitchen, the other cooks and boys worked at tables and benches. Four more carcasses waited in the basket at Simeon's feet. How many feathers was that, he wondered, gripping the clammy skin and tugging at the quills.
He worked steadily as Mister Bunce had advised him, resisting the urge to rush or sigh. The sack soon swelled with feathers. Simeon's mind began to wander . . . He too would be a cook one day, he thought. He imagined himself wielding pots and pans between the bench and the fire as John Saturnall did. He plucked the last of the tail-quills and reached for the next carcass. Perhaps Master Scovell himself would request his opinions . . .
Simeon was imagining the first of those conversations when he smelt the smoke.
He spun about, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. A black plume was rising from the chafing dish. As he watched, Master Elsterstreet hurried past to lift the pan off the trivet. His darkening expression and the acrid fumes told Simeon all he needed to know of the contents. If it darkens, lift it off . . . Hardly a difficult task, he berated himself And here came the one who had entrusted it to him, striding across the kitchen as if the pan had called to him.
John's face turned this way and that as he walked between the tables and benches, wiping a spoon on his canvas apron, mottled with scorch-marks and faded stains. He ducked under a pot hanging from a hook. That year he had grown until he could reach the lintel above the kitchen door, half a head taller than Mister Bunce, and a head and a half over Simeon. The new kitchen boy watched him fearfully.
‘Burnt again?’ John asked.
‘That's the third time,’ confirmed Philip, fanning away smoke.
A flash of irritation passed through John. He pushed back his fringe of thick black curls and trapped it under his cap then peered down.
The bottom was as black as a well. The liquor burned itself in a layer that resisted everything [so Mister Stone had told him last time] but a full day's soaking and an hour of scraping with a metal spoon. John raised his head, imagining the conversation with the Head of the Scullery. How difficult was it to watch a pan? His irritation rose again. But then he glanced at the new kitchen boy.
Simeon Parfitt's shoulders were hunched. The boy hung his head as if he wished the kitchen floor would open and swallow him whole. ‘Not as witless as some’ was how Mister Bunce had described him to John at the beginning of the week. High praise from the Head of Firsts. He had asked John to look out for the boy. Now Simeon's lower lip was quivering.
‘Master Saturnall, I . . . I was watching it. I just . . .’
‘Mister Saturnall,’ John corrected him, banishing his annoyance. ‘Calm yourself, Simeon. It is a simple liquor. An easy matter to boil up another . . .’
The lip stopped quivering. John picked up the pan and carried it, still trailing smoke, back towards the scullery. Around the kitchen, heads turned at the unexpected sight of John Saturnall in charge of a burning pan.
‘Simple liquor?’ Philip hissed beside him. ‘Easy matter? Madeira's twenty shillings a pound. What's Mister Palewick going to say?’
John looked into the blackened skillet. Three days ago its contents had been a loaf of Madeira sugar, locked up, wrapped and stamped with the Cellarer's seal. Madeira sugar was the most costly, the Cellarer had reminded John as he picked out one of the light brown bricks. Placing the block in a muslin bag, John had chipped off shards with a wedge and mallet then ground them in a quern. Tipped into a pan of steaming water, stirred and whisked, the sugar had thrown up a bubbling foam which John had skimmed and skimmed again until the syrupy liquor was poured into a clean kettle and clarified with the white of an egg. The reduction had followed, the hot charcoal in the chafing dish reddening his face as he stirred, the colour deepening through pale yellow to the amber he sought . . .
Now it was soot.
‘Well?’ Philip demanded. ‘And what will you tell our Cellarer?’
‘The Feast belongs to its cook,’ John said.
‘What?’ Philip demanded. ‘What does that mean?’ But before John could answer, a look of weary understanding came over him. ‘Scovell.’
‘You will work with me, John Saturnall,’ the Master Cook had told John as he stood before him in his chamber. ‘Every true cook carries a feast inside him. Your mother and I agreed on that. Why else would she send you to me? We will find your feast together.’
John had felt an excitement rise in him at Scovell's words. Why should the Feast not be for its cook? he asked himself, head bent over the pans and trays. Down here in the kitchens where the dishes reached their perfection. Here the kickshaws and confections that John prepared for the High Table appeared untouched and flawless. What returned were crumbs.
Now alongside Scovell, John eased preserved peaches out of galliot pots of syrup and picked husked walnuts from puncheons of salt. He clarified butter and poured it into rye-paste coffins. From the Master Cook, John learned to set creams with calves’ feet, then isinglass, then hartshorn, pouring decoctions into egg-moulds to set and be placed in nests of shredded lemon peel. To make cabbage cream he let the thick liquid clot, lifted off the top layer, folded it then repeated the process until the cabbage was sprinkled with rose water and dusted with sugar, ginger and nutmeg. He carved apples into animals and birds. The birds themselves he roasted, minced and folded into beaten egg whites in a foaming forcemeat of fowls.
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 r
ing, 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.
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