The Prince of Poison

by Pamela Kaufman

  Yes, I knew. I was glad that she was happy and safe.

  “She misses ye,” Enoch said.

  “Not so much as I miss her.” We were silent. “We’ll talk more in the morning, when Lord Robert awakes.”

  Sunday was sunny. Bells rang all over King’s Lynn as if marking the miracle of the weather. Lord Robert, now completely rested, he claimed, greeted me most kindly. Indeed, we were all in festive disposition.

  “Quick! Before it rains! You must get to know the area.”

  The two men, dressed in green like professional hunters, and carrying bows and quivers, followed me down Market Street. Enoch looked convincing, but Lord Robert still seemed aristocratic. He smiled at my appraisal and lifted his feathered cap to reveal a streak of white in his hair.

  “Do I pass?”

  “How strong are you, Lord Robert?”

  “Strong enough.”

  In a short time, we stood on a small hillock overlooking the Ouse.

  “That’s called the Broads.” I waved my hand toward a flat area before us. “You can see that it’s broad, all right, and you can also see that it’s almost submerged with water leets and rivers.”

  “That luiks to be a canal.”

  “You’re right—they’ve begun to dig waterways for boats. This is a marine economy.”

  Lord Robert cocked his head at the many sour bells. “Or a papal economy? The Church still seems active.”

  “Yes, I’m taking you to St. Margaret’s where we can ascend the bell tower, the highest in the area.”

  I led slowly. A strong breeze blew from the Channel; it was a miracle that it wasn’t raining.

  Enoch stooped by a tiny stream with his hand out.

  “No!” I held his hair until a toad jumped away. “That was the golden leopard-prince, though he’s misnamed. He’s deadly poison.”

  “Sames a guid nam to me,” Enoch said dryly.

  I ignored him. “There are many in the Broads, so be careful.”

  “What do you call those?” Lord Robert pointed at another small stream.

  At first I saw nothing except dead leaves, then what looked like a tangle of snakes.

  “Those are the famous lamprey eels,” I said. “King’s Lynn is known for them—ambrosia for kings.”

  Enoch dipped his hand.

  “Careful! They bite!”

  He licked his finger. “Saline, the water be mixed wi’ the sea. That be quhat eels lak.” He peered more intently. “Boot they be nocht eels.”

  “Aye, lamprey eels. King Henry I is supposed . . .”

  “To ha’e died fram eatin’ them, Ich knaw.”

  “Then why did you say they’re not lampreys? Everyone says so. Don’t you trust me?”

  “That be twa questions.” He waited, but I said nothing. “Aye, everich one elsit be wrang. Luik at them fat round lips, them thick bodies. Lampreys they may be, boot nocht eels. Them be leeches.”

  Enoch shot an arrow into the black huddle and pulled out a dead eel. Black blood pooled on the thirsty sand.

  “Auld King Henry micht ha’e died fram this beastie richt enow, fer humans doona digest blood.”

  We stared at each other.

  We continued to walk. Lord Robert was obviously tired but didn’t complain.

  Enoch stopped. “This be turrible country. Na wonder folk fish fer lampreys ond sift sand.”

  “Economically, it’s wonderful country!”

  “No grass fer kine, no soil fer oats!”

  “There are other criteria, Enoch!”

  “Ond ye’re contrary yif ye claim udderwise.”

  I pulled a reed. “See this? Perfect thatch! They not only farm it, they export it! And see those ducks? You can eat their eggs, eat the ducks themselves, use their feathers for stuffing or for writing, their tallow for candles! Ducks are the main animal here! Both domestic and wild!”

  “Ye sound lak a native!” He grinned.

  I was flattered.

  St. Margaret’s was a huge edifice with two high towers, the largest in King’s Lynn. Though only a church—not a bishopric, as was the cathedral in Hereford—it was a great church, similar in style to St. Paul’s, that is, the new Gothic. Even Enoch fell silent when we entered the nave, a vast empty space even on Sunday. I led the men quickly past pointed arches and triple columns to the back right-hand corner, where I opened a small door.

  “Who goes there?” a thin breathy voice called.

  “Marie-Franoise, Father Anselmo. You told me I could take my friends up to see the view.”

  The thin priest coughed into view. He gazed at Lord Robert. “The stairs are steep and treacherous. Are you sure . . . ?”

  “Positive,” the lord replied.

  The steps were indeed difficult, like going up a ladder, except that the stairs curved in tight circles. There were no rails, no ropes to cling to. Enoch went last, as if to catch us when we fell; though I objected to the intimacy, I was grateful for his strong hands on my rump. Lord Robert, who was first, stopped often to catch his breath.

  “Here?” he called when we reached a platform.

  “There’s a higher one if you can . . .”

  “I can.”

  Then Enoch began to curse.

  “What’s wrong?” I said softly.

  “That haly faddir be followin’ us.”

  “Yes, I’m here!” Father Anselmo’s high, husky voice confirmed.

  Well, his presence would prohibit any speculation, but I could still point out the path of the Wash.

  We stopped on a highest platform, buffeted by a wind we hadn’t felt below. Lord Robert’s face drippd heavily. Father Anselmo, also breathless, stood at the back in the shadow.

  “Qhar be the Wash, Marie-Franoise?” Enoch asked.

  “There, the tide’s coming in, see? That bubbling clay-colored stream of water rushing inland.” The roar identified it more than my words.

  “That’s a new path—it changes frequently,” Father Anselmo added. He pushed forward. “It’s changed course completely three times since I’ve been here and caught sixteen innocent children at play.”

  “Sixteen?” I challenged. “I heard six.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “That sun is difficult!” Lord Robert shaded his eyes.

  Indeed it was: the watery land below now looked like a giant mirror.

  “You’re looking at a lake,” Father Anselmo said. “The town is built on a lake.”

  I’d never seen the lake myself.

  “St. Margaret’s of Antioch is built on the Ouse, which you can see if you look straight down.”

  Only Enoch bent forward.

  “The original town was built between the Millfleet and the Purfleet.” Old names for the rivers, I knew.

  I went back to the Wash. “It’s a dangerous phenomenon, though it doesn’t appear so from here. There is seductive soft sand at the bottom, I am told.”

  “We ha’e mony swich tidal waters in Scotland, anely we call them tarns.”

  “Yet I am told that wagon trains cross your Wash, even when the tide is in,” Lord Robert mused.

  We stared quietly. Blinding sun forced us to look away.

  “Are you considering some event with King John?” Father Anselmo asked pleasantly.

  We all started! Lord Robert signaled to Enoch and me to stay quiet—he would answer. “You mean at the Guildhall? Not unless the cook wants fresh game, which we might supply. When is the king expected?”

  “You tell me, Lord Robert.”

  A shocked silence followed. Was the priest a soothsayer? A spy? Again Lord Robert signaled Enoch and me to remain silent. The lord didn’t argue his identity. “It would seem that the king has many enemies. What is your complaint?”

  The priest was quiet so long that I suspected I was right; he was a spy. “My obvious complaint is professional; St. Margaret’s lost a huge tax base when the king bought King’s Lynn.” He paused. “We make up a little with our Saturday market, but only a little. O
ur bishop managed to keep St. Nicholas a Benedictine priory, which gives us some advantage when it comes to weddings and funerals. There are also personal issues, which I would rather keep private.”

  “I understand,” Lord Robert said, thinking, no doubt, of Lady Gunmora and his daughter. Some priests still married—had Father Anselmo lost his wife to John?

  “What more can you tell us about the Wash?” I asked.

  It was highly unstable; the greatest danger was quicksand, which didn’t show when the tide was out, so it couldn’t be charted.

  “Do you think King John will use it?” I asked.

  He sighed. “Who can tell? He has before.”

  “Personally?” Lord Robert pressed.

  “I’m not certain. Memory says no, only to transport his treasure, but I could be wrong.”

  Lord Robert’s eyes narrowed.

  “Would the king change his mind?” Enoch asked.

  Oh yes, everyone did if the tide was out or even low; merchants frequently crossed at low tide. The Wash cut more than forty miles from the trip to Boston, in Lincolnshire, another trading center. The few natives who had specialized in leading tradesmen across the Wash made excellent money.

  The two men looked at each other, then back at the scene.

  “King’s Lynn is built on rubble, you know,” the priest informed us. “That’s one reason it’s so unstable.”

  “Is that Swineshead?” Lord Robert pointed to a spire above distant trees.

  “No. It’s much closer, a village called Wisbech, I believe. Another watershed.”

  We soon descended; we had no more questions.

  When we reached the foot of the stairs, Lord Robert took the priest’s arm. “Are you a spy?”

  “No, Lord Robert, I am not. Are you?”

  “If I am, I doubt not you will send me to hell in your prayers. If you are, I will send you to the same place with a knife at your throat. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes. I would add only that I would like to be part of your plan. I want to help.”

  Back in our garret, we drank grog. The expected storm was now raging.

  “We hae muckle werk to do,” Enoch said heavily.

  “Father Anselmo seemed an angry man—do you think he’s trustworthy?”

  Lord Robert nodded. “I do, though it hardly matters. He has no proof that we’re plotting, nor could he do anything if he did. What think you of the Wash, Enoch?”

  “Con ye swim?”

  Lord Robert laughed. “Like a lamprey!”

  “Do you plan to lead merchants?” I asked. “I’m told it’s hard employment to get, and . . .”

  “I’m too old? Ah yes, but I’m a baron, my dear; I know the Duke of Norfolk.”

  “I con git it,” Enoch said, “ond I con swim.” He drank more grog.

  Lord Robert stood. “Lady Alix, may I speak to you privately outside?”

  I glanced at Enoch. “Would you excuse us?”

  He waved his hand.

  “Lady Alix,” Lord Robert whispered. “Are you content?”

  Was he referring to my dangerous job? “Yes. Why?”

  “I feel guilty, you see, for imposing on your intimate time with your husband just before . . . I’m certain I could find other accommodations . . .”

  “I doubt it, Lord Robert. And we need to be together, all three of us.” We stared deeply at one another

  “Thank you.” He shrugged. “If you’re certain. I’m grateful, Alix, for your sacrifice, but I admit I’m . . . you’re a wonderful person—Enoch is lucky.” I waited—he wasn’t finished. “Enoch is very discreet about personal matters and . . . but I know he loves you. Anyway, thank you.”

  “Shall we go back?”

  The next day, both Enoch and Lord Robert applied to be guides across the Wash, and within a week both were accepted, though neither would be assigned at once, for the work required great skill as well as strength, and they had to learn the topography of the tidal wash, the shifting sands, the sea patterns, and I know not what. Both men claimed to be strong swimmers, which Enoch was; both claimed to understand tides, and both did; both claimed expertise with horses, though Enoch was the only one who had worked with mules. In fact, Enoch learned his work as a guide much more easily than Lord Robert, though both men studied charts by rushlight at night, for, very simply, he was younger. Yet Enoch, too, was vulnerable. I was reminded in melancholy fashion of the Crusade, the enfants perdus, the men deliberately sacrificed so the heroes could seek glory. Be as it may, he learned the Wash as well as is possible in a few days and with such shifting patterns.

  Meantime, I drained salt from the sand and worked in the evenings at the Guildhall. I conferred with the two men about my own plans, in which they also wanted to partake.

  20

  I worried about Lord Robert, I worried about what Enoch might be saying to him without telling me, but I worried most of all about Master Whitfrock.

  The cook at the Guildhall was a skilled man, no doubt. Like most masters in his craft, he hailed from Aquitaine and he frequently spoke to me in that tongue. Then he began to make comments about my person, that I was belle and dlicate. Then I became talented beyond belief, born with a gift from God in the art of cuisine. Though I had been hired as a scullery maid, he insisted on teaching me how to cook.

  At first I was grateful, for I came to the Guildhall weary from sifting salt, and cooking was less onerous physically than scrubbing grease off floors. The lampreys were still my assignment, but we weren’t ready yet to prepare them. Eels or leeches, it hardly mattered, for they were a nasty beast whatever their name. Aggressive, strong, deadly; everyone made a wide swath around their tubs. Even the sharks seemed benign in comparison; at least they were both stupid and limited by their solid bodies.

  But I soon wearied of stirring sauces, though I did learn much from Master Whitfrock. I related my adventures to Lord Robert and Enoch at night, embellishing only slightly to amuse them. Enoch claimed that all men coveted me and at least I was learning something useful from this one; Lord Robert was more cynical, for he warned me that the man would use me for his own advancement.

  On October 13, all of King’s Lynn began to prepare for the king’s arrival. Boys and girls in wooden clogs shoveled and swept the High Street, where he would ride; inside, on hands and knees, we scrubbed the surface off the floors, then waxed them to a high shine. Even the salt sifters put aside the finest salt they could make for his table; then we decided who would sit above or below the most excellent salt. Master Whitfrock kept me in the kitchen to personally prepare such delicacies as could be made ahead.

  Our greatest dishes were from the sea, of course, for that was our reputation and, of the many fish dishes, the lamprey eel was the pice de rsistance, but we also prepared meats, vegetables, and desserts. Master Whitfrock taught me fruytes ryal rice, artichokes with blueberry rice, for example; or roseye, fried loach with roses and almonds, a most delicious dessert.

  My principal assignment, however, was to care for the lampreys, a flattering job on the one hand, but also dangerous. King John, like other kings, considered the lamprey fit only for a royal palate, partly because of their rarity, and partly, I suspect, because of their bloody flavor. Which led to the conclusion that—like him—they were killers. We now had four large wooden tubs filled with the beasts. Their stench filled the Guildhall, a bloody and fishy aroma combined, and they thrashed without cease, trying to leap from their tubs. Though shaped like snakes, their black, thick bodies were short, topped by large heads with bulging, scummy eyes. Their peculiar faces had neither nose nor mouth, just a round sucker where a mouth should be. Under the sucker with its thick “lip” was another hole lined with inset teeth like a comb. The sucking lips and teeth worked on a victim together: The sucker attached to the victim and sucked, while the teeth released a poison comparable to the hemlock, which both paralyzed the victim and thinned its blood so it was more readily available. Add to that a dangerous, aggressive disposition,
and you have the lamprey. With the help of a boy namd Lewey, I managed to flop one of these foul creatures from his tub, and he lay thrashing on the floor. I beat him with a board until he stopped moving, then—with the same board—scooped him onto the cutting table. I chopped his head off at once to be sure he wouldn’t fasten on me in his death throes, and black blood spilled over the tiles. The odor made me faint, but I persevered.

  The day before the king arrived, we prepared six lamprey eels, as his first course was to be served cold. I crushed two pieces of coarse brown bread to start, added a cup of red wine, a teaspoon of cinnamon, a dash of pepper and salt, and boiling water containing skinned and cut-up lampreys, which we then placed in a pie shell to cook. On the morning of the sixteenth, we added a syrup of wine, ginger, and two more slices of bread crumbs. We cooked it at dawn, then put it aside to cool.

  Master Whitfrock insisted that I serve the king myself.

  “His own men serve him!” I protested. “Or his taster! Never a female!”

  “I want he should know what elegance we have here in King’s Lynn.”

  It was true that I wore my silver tunic for my assignation with the king and that Lord Robert and Enoch had both remarked upon my beauty that morning, but I had no intention of the king seeing me emerge from the kitchen! I convinced Master Whitfrock that there was no way to force me, but I lost valuable time.

  I lost even more time when Enoch and Lord Robert suddenly appeared in their Wash garb. Father Anselmo hovered behind them on the pretext that he must bless the food! They told Master Whitfrock solemnly that they’d come to see their sister prepare food for the great monarch. All three men gazed at the lampreys, though none, Deo gratias, asked to taste the mess. Then Enoch suddenly took my cheeks and kissed me on the lips, farewell to his beloved sister in case he foundered in the dangerous Wash. Lord Robert hastily did the same. The priest spared me.

  At least those kisses wiped the memory of John’s lips from my mind. On the other hand, Enoch’s evoked such memories that I swallowed hard to prevent tears.

  When the king’s horns bleated on the High Street, our kitchen emptied, for every scullery boy and girl rushed to see the magnificent train—three hundred men, I was told. And the king! Had anyone ever beheld such magnificence? Like a god! Clad in scarlet trimmed in miniver, a gold chain at his neck, but most of all his face! So noble, so handsome, so condescending!