by Sophie Jaff
I find the staircase I seek, and descend into the belly of the castle. As early as it is, the kitchen is already teeming with life. Tonight, Lord de Villias returns, and there is a banquet. Many hands are already at work around the endless stretch of tables, which bear the weight of piled iron pots and skillets and instruments, most of torturous design: knives for skinning and peeling and scraping, mallets for mashing and pestles for grinding, sieves for straining and tied twigs for whisking. In baskets below are heaps of onions and apples and turnips. It is hot down here, and just as in hell the devil himself presides; the head cook roars like an ogre, torturing the legions of scullions who live to serve him, right down to the poor little spit boys who, because of the fire’s flaming heat, often wear nothing at all.
I am careful to avoid the cook, who has but two humors: foul and fouler. He is huge and bald, though black bristles sprout upon his chest and back, and his clothes are stiff with stains and smears of grease. When I first laid eyes upon him I was frightened enough, but I have since learned that he has more of an eye for a pretty spit boy than he does for a woman, and as long as I keep out of his way I am in no danger of his attentions.
I slip into the bakehouse, which is next to the brewery. Here is yet more heat, and the warm animal smell of yeast rising. Faces are flushed, and I look for Warin, who has quickly become a favorite of Thomas and myself.
“You’re up early today.” Warin raises an eyebrow. “Your brother has yet to come in to claim his portion.”
I feel a pang of guilt. “You will save a good piece, won’t you?”
“He’ll take what I give him,” Warin says gruffly, but his voice holds a smile. Everyone likes Thomas. Within days of our arrival he had befriended the butler, the brewers, the guards, and all of the scullions with a nimble wit, fast tongue and a sympathetic way of drawing out others’ troubles. He’s learned the woes of Folant the Cobbler, what ails Dyl the Blacksmith, who is fighting with whom, the nature of each and every man serving the lord and how best to please him. It is thanks to Thomas that Rudd has had such easy passage. At first sight, many had been alarmed by his size.
“He’ll eat at least two men’s portions,” grumbled one of the guards.
“Yes,” Thomas had shot back. “He’ll eat for two, but he’ll work for five, so you’ll have three men’s work out of him. You couldn’t make a better bargain!”
Even the guard had laughed at this. Since then, Rudd has been treated well. Each day he reports to the castellan, who puts him to work unloading carts and lifting sacks of grain and moving stones when ramparts need repair. No one can be offended by Rudd’s cheerful smile and simple silence. As Thomas puts it, Rudd is the best listener by far.
I often wonder how Thomas has smoothed my path. No doubt he has had to field some questions, even defend me, but perhaps it is better not to know.
I thank Warin and, clutching my small loaf new from the oven, I move over to my vats. For two weeks I have been sifting and straining, trying with all different grains and spices to make an ale worthy of Lord de Villias himself. I taste it now. It is good, no one could say otherwise, and yet, and yet . . . I stir and sweat through the better part of the day, and then Thomas clatters into the brewery.
“Margaret!” he cries.
“What is wrong?” I wince at the thought of trouble.
“Come, come quick, he is here!” He grabs my hand and pulls me, running, up and into the main castle courtyard.
There is much commotion, horses snorting and pawing in the late light and knights and messengers and pages calling good-natured greetings.
“But where is the lord?” I ask. “I cannot see him in this madness.”
Thomas points. High on a great white horse he sits, haloed by the last of the sun, and he is golden, golden, golden. His fair skin glows, and his tawny curls glint in the waning light. His eyes are radiant. His features are firm, proud. Lord August de Villias, August by name and august by nature. He throws back his handsome head at a jest from one of his men, and his laughter is full and innocent as a boy’s.
Instantly, I know.
If he would but smile at me just once, I would happily walk into fire for him. There are flashes before my eyes, as if I have been staring unguardedly into the blazing summer sun.
“Oh, Margaret.” Thomas is awed. “Is he not splendid? What would you not give to serve him?”
I nod and swallow. For once, I have no words. It is all too much. I turn abruptly, for it hurts my heart to look upon him.
“I will see you later,” I tell Thomas.
I must go to the garden. I understand now what the ale needs.
There, I breathe in the scent of sage and parsley and try to keep a cool head. I must let my heart guide me. I snap stems of rosemary and lavender, and clutch them tightly to my chest.
The castle has caught my fever. Servants scurry here and there under a volley of shouted orders in preparation for the night’s banquet, which is almost upon us. The kitchens are bedlam, though the smells are heavenly. The spit boys turn huge joints of lamb and swine, pots are bubbling, and the stone ovens are crammed to bursting. I make my way to the brewery, where my casks are ready to be filled to their brims. I drop the lavender and rosemary into the cauldron and stir as the song flows from me:
Heart to heart,
Bone to bone,
Each cup-filled cup
Make thee my own.
I am tired but there is no time to rest, for I know now that the ale is ready and it must go out to all the men.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and begin to fill the casks, which servants grunt and strain to lift.
As the last of the sun fades from the sky, the banquet begins. There is roasted fowl and spitted lamb, stewed beef and braised hare, turbot and baked herrings, bone and marrow pies, brawn in mustard and meat fritters made with the finest entrails. A suckling pig and a baked capon in pastry are served, alongside boiled venison in almond milk and Lord de Villias’s favorite dish, roast curlew and martinets, which is followed by pyramids of honeyed fruits and bowls of stewed damsons, pears poached in wine. Wafers and shelled nuts are presented on dishes of silver and shining pewter.
Watching the parade of delicacies travel up to the Great Hall, I sit in a corner of the kitchen to eat my own meal, having scavenged a discarded wing of fowl and some fatty end bits from the joint. I am drowsy from my work and the warmth of the ovens, and doze . . . until I am woken by a page dressed in good cloth.
“The new alewife is summoned to the Great Hall!” he calls out.
My heart is in my mouth.
“What could he want with me?” I ask, but I am told only that I must appear before the lord and his men.
I am dirty and sweaty from my labors, but there is nothing for it. With my palms, I wipe the smuts from my face as best I can and let my hair down around my shoulders.
When I finally enter the Great Hall, I am speechless. Fires illuminate the rich colors of the heavy tapestries, the long tables draped with linens embroidered in silver and gold thread and an endless array of dishes. More candles than I have ever seen flicker and smoke amid the platters. The Hall is filled with sound, minstrels accompanied by lute and pipes and fiddles, and the laughter and talk of the knights and nobles, punctuated by shouts to servants to bring more dishes, to refill their cups.
I make my way through this joyous din, carefully stepping over the carpet of rushes strewn about the floor, which still smells sweet and fresh even though now it is blanketed in bones and bits of gristle that even the dogs would not have. Slowly, I approach the main table. Clad in green and silver, he sits, leaning back a little, among those who love him best. His steward stands to his right. Lord de Villias gestures and the steward bends down and whispers into his ear. The lord nods and smiles. The music ceases, the talk dies, and the silence that follows is immense.
“What is your name?”
His voice, though not loud, carries clear and confident across the Great Hall.
It feels as if the whole world is waiting to hear my answer.
“Margaret Belwood, my lord.” I pray my voice will not betray my trembling limbs, my hammering heart.
“Well, Mistress Belwood.”
My name from his lips is exquisite like cold, sweet well water. He lets his eyes move slowly up and down my form before fixing his gaze upon my own.
“I have summoned you to commend you on your most excellent ale. I swear I have never tasted its like before.”
With my eyes lowered, I curtsy as best I can.
“Thank you, my lord,” I murmur.
The flames of the fire and the candles bathe him in gold. He smiles, and warmth rises within me. Would that I could die now, when I am so happy.
“What reward, what payment, might I give you to show you my pleasure?”
I do not need to think of what to say because the words are already there. “My lord, your satisfaction is reward enough for me.”
I dare to lift my gaze to his. I see surprise, surprise and genuine gratification. I believe he did not expect this answer. His mouth curves into a smile.
“Well then, Margaret Belwood,” he says softly, “I thank you.” His eyes shine more brightly than the silver upon the table.
I curtsy again, then take my leave. A strange silence drags behind me as I exit. I am a few steps into the passage when the musicians and minstrels strike up their tunes. The voices grow louder—one splits into shards of laughter—and I am once more alone.
I head for the cottage, not walking but floating. I am just past the main gate when I float into a wall, only it is not a wall but the solid bulk of a man’s back. It’s a guard, drawing from a wineskin.
He turns with an oath, and then he sees me. His face breaks into a pitted leer.
“Well, what have we here?”
When we came to the castle, the steward warned me of the dangers.
“It has been a long winter,” he had said. “The men have grown restless. I have told those who work in the household that you are under my protection, but I cannot account for every man here. You would do well to keep to your quarters when you are not at work.”
The guard reaches out with thick fingers, pulling me close. He is well into his cups by the reek of him.
“Let me go!” I wriggle, a hooked fish.
“Not without a kiss,” he smirks. “My lips are parched for love. It is too long since I’ve lain with a whore and you’ll do nicely.”
“Let me go!” I cry again, but he only laughs, pulling me off into the darkness.
“Unhand her!” It is the lean, long steward’s man, with a voice of iron.
The guard looks up with a grunt, he stumbles forward, still clutching me, ready to fight. “And what is it to you?”
“I am Landon, the steward’s man, and I make my report to him.”
He had been affable when I saw him last, but now he stands cold and straight, authority itself. There is something in his manner that I would not wish to cross.
“But why should you care for a whore?” The drunken guard appears bewildered at Landon’s vehemence.
“She is no whore! She is the new alewife, chosen by the steward and owed all due protection. Why, his lordship himself summoned her tonight to praise her work. I doubt he would be pleased to hear of the woman he personally showed favor toward being handled so rough by one of his own men.”
The guard takes a step back.
“Forgive me, sir, I did not know,” he mutters, chastened.
“It is not for me, but for her to grant you forgiveness,” Landon declares.
The guard mumbles something, churlish.
“I could not hear, speak up.”
I want to protest, for Landon has made a bad situation worse, but I dare not.
At last the guard speaks to the ground. “I beg your forgiveness. I did not know.”
I nod.
“Now, be gone from my sight!”
Like a dog with its tail between its legs, the guard shuffles away, turning back but once to shoot me a venomous look before skulking into the night.
Landon smiles tightly, steps toward me. “Any true harm done?”
I shake my head. “None. I thank you.”
“Must I always be saving you?” He gives me a crooked grin, and I think again of him deftly ensuring that the steward would try my ale even after he seemed to declare Dryllis and her daughter the winners.
“It would seem so,” I admit.
“You did very well tonight.”
“Again, I thank you.”
“What do you think of his lordship?”
“Why, he is like the sun,” I blurt out before I can think the better of it.
He nods. “It is true that he is the best of men. But be careful, lest you come too close and burn up. Now, go home quickly. It is not safe out here when the hour is so late.”
It is clear that our exchange is over, and I continue into the darkness, still so rattled by my encounter with the guard that I do not think to wonder why Landon was out here at this hour.
Though it is late, Thomas is waiting up for me. Rudd is snoring loudly, but he has a hundred and one questions and makes me tell him exactly what happened, for word has somehow already reached him of my audience with Lord de Villias, and the offer of a reward.
He is by turns pleased and bewildered, even angry.
“But why?” He keeps his voice low for fear of waking Rudd. “Why did you not ask for some small reward? He is certain to have given it to you and now the chance is lost forever!”
How to explain it to him, still a child? If I had taken what was offered, that would have been the end of it.
I lie upon my pallet. I close my eyes, and see him as he smiles at me in the firelight and I know. I know.
This is just the beginning.
14
Katherine
They are exhausted after the flight. It’s raining.
“Welcome to England,” their driver had said when he met them at Heathrow. Now he pulls up in front of a line of white houses, guarded by black railings, that stand quietly in the rain. Katherine notices a small park, soft and damp and still green even though it’s almost December.
They get their bags in, and then, even though they are tired, they explore their new home. The open kitchen has a massive white marble island in the center, which separates it from the dining room. The walls are off-white, and the floors are pale wood. There are cream and pale-gray couches with tan and cream cushions, and large terra-cotta pots holding white orchids. As if we were drowning in milk, Katherine thinks. It’s one of the most elegant and beautiful spaces she’s ever seen.
On the long wooden dining room table is a huge white ceramic bowl of gleaming grapes and peaches and apples. Lucas helps himself to an apple, and Katherine almost screams, Stop! Don’t touch anything! Then, collecting herself, I guess he’s allowed an apple if he wants one. It’s his home, after all.
Sael opens the shining stainless steel refrigerator. He whistles. Its spotless white interior is stocked with milk, eggs, several different cheeses, vegetables.
They walk from room to room.
Sael seems mildly pleased. “It will do.”
Katherine is silent. She has never lived in a place as nice as this. In one of the bedrooms there’s a huge bouquet of lilies, white again, and Sael stands by the bed looking not pleased but concerned.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think George thought that we’d be staying in a room . . . together.” His eyes veer away and he frowns.
“Aren’t we staying in a room together? That’s what I thought too.”
Katherine has the real sensation of the floorboards tilting away under her feet.
“Oh . . . I mean, I just didn’t know how you felt.”
She wants to say, Sael, I miss you, I want to be in bed with you, begins to say this, but just then Lucas comes running through.
“Kat, Kat, come! I think I found my room!”
“You di
d? That’s great!”
“Well, he’s coming around later to meet us, so we can talk with him then.” Sael doesn’t meet her eye. “The company brought him in kind of last minute anyway. We’ve been emailing on and off, but I guess there’s always going to be stuff that doesn’t translate.”
Lucas grabs her hand and pulls her out of the room before she can ask just what ‘stuff’ he’s talking about, how he’ll explain their situation.
She’s dragged into Lucas’s room, where a very cool-looking model airplane, a Paddington Bear, and several books—one called The Horrible History of Britain and two big picture books, one that seems to be about castles—sit on his bed.
George, I don’t know how Sael feels about you but I think I’m in love.
“Wow! This is awesome. But you know what?” She collapses on the bed. “I think this is my room.”
Lucas smiles shyly. “No, it’s not, it’s mine.”
“Nope, this airplane, this bear”—she hugs the Paddington to her chest—“clearly mine.”
“No, it’s—”
“Wanna wrestle for it?” She reaches out and pulls him in, hugging and tickling.
Lucas shrieks with laughter. “Stop it! No, it’s mine! It’s mine!”
Katherine grins into his hair. She’s suddenly seized with wild optimism. Maybe this could work, after all.
“Guys?” Sael stands in the doorway. “I’m starving, want to grab lunch?”
As if in reply Katherine’s stomach rumbles and she clutches it, grimacing with embarrassment. Lucas giggles.
“I guess that’s your answer. Should we make something with what’s in the fridge?”
“We could, but I kind of want to stretch my legs.” He crouches down to Lucas’s height. “What do you say, kid?”
“Okay!” Lucas is still in giggle mode. He’s pretty excited, maybe overexcited, Katherine worries, and then decides, but what the hell, it’s not every day you immigrate.
They take a walk, taking two umbrellas that they find neatly stacked by the door. The rain isn’t that bad now, more spitting than pouring. There’s a whole array of shops and cafés two streets down, and Katherine’s heart lifts again. Sael heads toward a trendy restaurant that looks chic yet cozy. The lunch-hour crowd fills it up, but they get a table near the back.