Artemisia guessed the lower tables set in a U-shape along the vast oak parquetry were for the village merchants and bankers. Where would Andreas de Vitriaco be seated tonight? she wondered.
A chambermaid rolled a red runner down the middle of each table and placed a dozen giant silver candelabras in the centre. It was going to be a magical evening.
A series of quick heavy footsteps paced into the hall behind her and Artemisia turned to see the grin of Lord Boschaud, his face looking tan against the pale velvet hunting jacket he wore. A successful hunt—or even more successful celebration—Artemisia guessed. The lord’s proud smile and twitching shoulders reminded her of the excitable child who could never sit still for lessons.
Behind him, with a face of stone, stood Abbot Roald.
Lord Boschaud clapped his hands. ‘At last it is up. In good time for the feast. Look at those happy nymphs—a most generous gift from the Clinchys. Wouldn’t you agree, Abbot?’
‘Well, I—I hardly think—’
‘Marvellous!’ Lord Boschaud beamed. ‘A prize. Spirited. Like my fair Rose—one can only hope.’ He elbowed Abbot Roald in the gut with a friendly chuckle. Then he turned on the heel of his boots, raised his hands and clapped them twice. ‘Very good. Very good. Much better than that boorish, buttoned-up Virgin. Sorry, Abbot, I know you have your vows but surely on days like this your God must let you have a little fun.’ He laughed again.
‘One who is unmarried is concerned about the things of the Lord, how he may please the Lord—’
‘Yes, yes. I understand all that,’ Lord Boschaud said impatiently. ‘You’re not going to start one of your lectures now, are you, Abbot Roald? Not today!’
Abbot Roald blanched and started speaking quickly. ‘Artemisia, may I ask what you are doing standing around watching other people work? Is it too much for me to ask you to work? It is, after all, going to be the finest wedding banquet in the south.’
Lord Boschaud looked at her with curiosity and she noticed shadows under his eyes that she’d missed, distracted by his bonhomie.
‘Artemisia?’ Her master’s voice softened a little as he held his hand up to quiet the abbot.
‘M’lord,’ she said in reply.
‘Everything in order for the banquet?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’ She took a deep breath and stepped towards him. ‘I wondered if I might trouble you for a moment this noon.’ Artemisia glanced at the reddening abbot. ‘I need to clarify something about the wine accounts—’
The abbot coughed and stepped forward. ‘No need to waste your time, m’lord. I simply took it upon myself to order two extra barrels, as Artemisia here could not be trusted to order the correct amount.’
Artemisia forced herself to remain expressionless. It was useless arguing now. She’d put it in a letter to Lord Boschaud later today. Even so, who would take the cook’s word over the chaplain’s?
The abbot opened his palms to Lord Boschaud. ‘We don’t want the guests complaining, do we?’ He shot an angry look at Artemisia over his shoulder.
‘Very well.’ Lord Boschaud sounded weary—and more than a little bored at being asked to consider such petty matters today of all days.
Artemisia slowly turned to fully face the men and pulled her shoulders back. She too was weary from working eighteen-hour days but knew it wouldn’t do to stir the abbot’s temper. His jowls were fleshy and his nose the colour of a strawberry from his beloved Burgundy. The brown robe and red cord strained over his great barrel of a belly.
‘Pardon, Abbot Roald.’ Artemisia dipped her head and looked at the floor. ‘I merely await your instruction. The kitchen is on time and we shall be ready to lay the dressers shortly.’
‘May I ask,’ Abbot Roald spat, ‘if you could repeat what these entremets are? I want to be sure they are up to the standard I commissioned.’ He glanced at Lord Boschaud. ‘We have quite a spectacle planned for you, sir.’ Abbot Roald stood so close to Artemisia that she could feel his warm fetid breath against her cheek as he spoke.
‘Well, in that case I shall see them now.’ The lord grinned, revealing a full set of yellow teeth stained with red wine. He yanked a chair from the table and sat down, waving his wrist to indicate that a pretty blonde maid should fill the goblet set in front of him. She rushed to grab a jug of wine from the corner and filled his cup, but in her haste spilled a few drops on his crushed velvet sleeve.
‘Plenty of chances to practise at tonight’s banquet,’ said Lord Boschaud, beaming as he mopped up the wine with the edge of the tablecloth.
The girl grinned at the lord, then quickly averted her eyes and walked away after a stiff nod and stony glare from the abbot.
Artemisia stepped in. ‘I shall fetch them now and place them on the dressers, Abbot,’ she said.
Artemisia ran down the stairs and a wall of heat struck her as she entered the kitchen. ‘Quick, Jacobus, leave the coals and help me carry the features to the hall.’ She stepped into the cold store and lifted a tray of coloured jellies dyed with sunflower, lavender, saffron and bay. There was a tray of white swans, another with hand-sized blue peacocks, yellow hares and green pheasants. Some were dressed with their original feathers. All feet and beaks were covered with the finest gold leaf—applied with eggwhite and a goose feather to great effect.
Artemisia stood with her foot in the larder door to prop it open and handed out platters of jellies to each of the maids, with a warning to tread carefully. Next were simple platters of whole fruit—glossy oranges, apples, lemons and limes—with fresh leaves attached. As they were carried up the stairs they glistened in the sun streaming through the tiny windows of the curved stairwell. Artemisia marvelled at Hildegard’s handiwork and longed to bite into the bright green apple, but she knew this too contained a secret. Under the shiny glaze of each replica piece of fruit lay a fine duck liver pâté spiced with the slightest trace of orange rind and cinnamon.
The last of the heavy trays to travel up the stairs with the maids were the gold and pewter platters. On these, Artemisia and Hildegard had shaped a series of pastries and pies from rabbit, capon, pheasant, beef and wild herbs. The finest two were a hare with enormous standing ears lying in a bed of sorrel ready to jump and a pheasant tucked under a hedgerow of laurel and hornbeam. She was thrilled that her efforts looked so lifelike.
Artemisia’s favourite, however, was the delicate entremet of Château de Boschaud and the pastry garden. Weeks in the making and garnished with the fresh plants she collected at dawn, it was her wedding gift for the fair Rose and her groom. She couldn’t wait to see the delight on the young woman’s face when she set eyes on this pastry at the banquet.
The stone walls were made of marzipan and pastry, coloured with some squid ink so it looked like the local granite. The orchard was laid out in a grid with box hedgerow cuttings onto which Artemisia had carefully placed some blossoms. Artemisia had harvested flowers throughout the spring and summer—preserving the shape and perfume of delicate pink cherry blossoms and the blush of apples and pears in sugar water on trays in the cold store. The potager had neat rows of sprigs of lavender, rosemary, hyssop, thyme and sage. Her tiny fields were strewn with upright heads of baby wheat, barley and calamus. Jacobus—dear Jacobus—had sat up late into the eve for a month shaping the bench seats, alleys and arbours from chestnut prunings. But her favourite part of the entremet were the woods and field she’d re-created just outside the wall. She had a blue stream of jelly with watercress, a wildflower meadow and a tiny stand of châtaigne—a chestnut forest—under which she had trimmed down some fungi and moss to make a soft stand of mushrooms. As she leaned down, she could smell an earthy mix of moss, marzipan and cinnamon.
It took ten of the house staff to carry her masterpiece stair by stair so they did not crack the base. Or knock it into the curved wall of the stairwell. Or tip it too far sideways. Next time she’d make it in multiple pieces. Her heart skipped a beat and she felt herself flush as she realised the next one she made would be for her
own betrothed. She was already planning a sweet little forest with a lake and collection of woodland animals.
Still blushing, she ushered everyone across to the grand oak dresser on the side wall and rearranged the silverware on the wide shelf so her château and garden would sit in pride of place. Rose and Lord Boschaud would have a prime view. She thanked the maids as they slid the entremet onto the bench inch by inch before hurrying back to their tasks. Artemisia remained alone beside her garden, leaning in to look at the delicate blossoms and admire the pretty clumps of sorrel, borage, angelica, fennel and wild celery she placed along the outside of the wall. She lifted the roof of the replica château carefully, checking it was still intact. The three rabbits could be inserted at the last minute—she’d have the minstrels create a diversion.
‘And what have we here?’ asked Lord Boschaud as he walked over to the dresser and leaned over the garden for a closer look.
‘It’s an en—’
‘Stop, I can see what it is. It’s lovely.’ He directed the same lopsided grin at Artemisia he had as a child. There’d always been a lazy kindness about him. ‘Did you make this?’
‘Yes m’lord, I—’
‘Lord Boschaud.’ Abbot Roald stepped in front of Artemisia, cutting her view of the master and digging his back heel hard into her toes. ‘If you’ll allow me to present you with this replica of Château de Boschaud. A small token of my gratitude and respect. The monks and I wish you and your betrothed Lady Rose every happiness.’ He gave a little bow and waved his hand with a flourish.
‘Well. I’m sure the young Rose will be delighted. I am deeply honoured. It is the work of a master, not a journeyman. At least it would be—if we didn’t have Artemisia.’ He nodded in her direction, his messy straw-coloured hair collecting at his shoulder. Artemisia felt a blush rising from the collar of her tunic.
‘See to it, won’t you, that one of my stewards guard this carefully before the banquet. I don’t want anyone tipping a jug of ale or platter of meat on this entremet. Nothing is to spoil Rose’s wedding. It is her first, after all.’ He took a breath before adding under his breath ‘Who knows what could happen at the next battle?’ Lord Boschaud straightened himself and looked from the abbot to Artemisia.
The abbot looked like he had sucked a lemon.
Lord Boschaud walked past Artemisia and, meeting her eyes, he said with a broad smile: ‘Abbot Bellamy would be proud of you, Cook.’
As he left the room, Artemisia gathered her skirts and grinned as butterflies danced in her stomach. He understood her gift. There was joy to be had within the château’s walls and the garden. Love and devotion.
Artemisia took a deep breath and straightened her tunic and told herself she was being silly, reading too much into a smile. After all, she and the lord rarely conferred over anything outside the accounts. As long as Lady Rose loved the gift, that was all that mattered.
No sooner had Lord Boschaud’s footsteps faded down the stairwell than Abbot Roald swivelled to face her. ‘I suppose you think you are very clever. Too clever by half.’
‘No, Abbot.’
‘Do not interrupt me.’ The abbot’s eyes bulged and his face turned the colour of a beet. ‘I see you skulking outside these walls. Slacking off your tasks. Don’t think I don’t see you. You never come to the chapel for absolution. Or confession.’
‘Abbot, I—’
‘I said do not interrupt me.’ Abbot Roald’s controlled voice had risen to a boom. The maids turned and looked at Artemisia in sympathy before returning to their tasks.
Artemisia could see Abbot Roald was in a lather. Dark patches appeared under his arms and down the front of his chest. Beads of sweat trickled down his bald head and dripped from his earlobes and nose. Artemisia needed to be very careful; she needed her tongue. His dark vicious eyes narrowed and he grabbed her chin, forcing her head up to meet his eyes.
‘You. Defying my orders in the kitchen. Making an entremet that was not on my list. It is my job to record all the items for this wedding banquet. And as for that little sneaky attempt about the extra wine … I deserve it,’ he blustered. ‘I run the household. His lordship is never here.’
Abbot Roald stabbed his chest with his thumb. ‘I’m in charge around here. How many times do you need to be told?’ He dropped his voice and leaned in so his nose was almost rubbing against Artemisia’s.
‘I’d be very careful if I were you. You have no kin. I see you with that épicier, de Vitriaco … I control all the château’s business with the masters of each guild. What business could you have with the épicier that doesn’t lie under your skirt?’
Artemisia felt clammy as heat spread across her shoulders, chest and head. She wished she didn’t colour so easily.
‘Yes.’ He nodded slowly. ‘I have your attention now, don’t I?’ He pulled his lips back in a sneer to reveal a set of black and yellow rotting teeth.
Suddenly, Abbot Roald took a step back. She watched in horror as he swept her precious midsummer garden to the floor.
She was too shocked to move.
The pastry and marzipan crumbled on impact and a mélange of blossoms and herbs spread across the wide oak floorboards. Artemisia breathed in sharply through her nose, then slid away from the abbot. She gulped down her sobs, struggling to swallow. Abbot Roald yanked her hair with the same arm, and forced her to her knees, pushing her head to the floor—smashing her face into the jelly river. Artemisia lay sprawled across the floorboards—her garden smeared in all directions—as she struggled to sit up. Two moons’ work destroyed in an instant. She forced herself onto her haunches.
‘Stay there.’ He placed his leather boot on her shoulder. ‘Clean this up.’
He turned to speak to the chambermaids. ‘No-one is to help her,’ he ordered. ‘Leave. Now.’
Josette gave Artemisia a pained, helpless look—her eyes filled with tears—as she followed the other chambermaids out the door.
Once the women were out of earshot, Roald then turned and kicked his foot deep into Artemisia’s belly, the point of his shoe ripping her dress. ‘That will teach you some respect. Pride goes before destruction.’ He gave her a piercing look.
‘I’ll send a message to Lord Boschaud that the clumsy cook destroyed the centrepiece. No doubt there will need to be a suitable punishment.’ Abbot Roald turned on his heel and left the banquet hall.
Artemisia slumped back down onto the floor, gasping for breath and trying to stem the flow of her tears. She was devastated for Lady Rose. She was a chattel, ’twas true enough. But Artemisia had wanted to give her a gift befitting her name. Love. Perfection. Hope. Just as Abbot Bellamy taught Artemisia as a child, she wanted to show Lady Rose that within these walls—and beyond—there was beauty if you looked. Her thoughts hardened towards Abbot Roald. You like to appear righteous in public, but God knows your heart. What this world honours is detestable in the sight of God.
She should go downstairs and help Hildegard and Emmeline in the kitchen but first she needed to clean up the mess. Was it possible for her to stand? She tried to rock forward and sit up. She could not even lift her head from the floor, let alone her legs. Artemisia’s nerves were as smashed and shredded as the pastry beside her and no amount of violet tea would quell the hot bile churning in her belly. She could taste salt as her tears pooled beside her cheek stuck to the floorboards.
She prayed for the strength to make it through to the evening.
Chapter 20
Camino de Santiago, Spain, September 2014
It was 7 am on a rare Sunday off, and Pip had set off to hike into the foothills that escalated in green waves all the way to the Pyrenees. She was following a well-worn goat track in the middle of a field. There was something humble about it all that reminded her of all those bush tracks she’d hiked with her dad over the years. Narrow trails threading up Mount Macedon, weaving around the towering gums and rogue bracken, grasses and ferns.
Here, in the lower foothills outside Mendiluze, the countrys
ide was cleared and honed for rather intensive agriculture. From her vantage point on the crest where Pedro had parked, she could see wide green stretches of pasture broken up with rows of apple trees and larger chestnut trees.
Pip shook her legs, embracing the crisp autumn mist. The sky was looking pretty dark. What had she been thinking, wearing denim cut-offs? At least she had her trusty woollen hoodie.
Pedro had stopped at her station the night before as she scrubbed down stainless steel with hot water, in a hurry to hit the town for a Saturday night out with her station buddies.
‘Hey, Pip. Good job tonight. Heading out?’
‘Yep. The Gros. You coming?’
‘No, I’m leaving for a hike along the Camino de Santiago near Mendiluze tomorrow. I’m going to do some foraging in the hills before I pop in to the best restaurant in the area.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Tempted?’
‘Sure, why not? I’ve been meaning to do some of the pilgrim’s trail. That’s what everyone comes here for, isn’t it? What time are you leaving?’
‘I can pick you up at five-thirty.’
‘Ouch.’ Still, she was excited about the prospect of a walk. ‘Cool, thanks.’
‘Bring an overnight bag—and comfortable shoes,’ he said, eyeing her filthy trainers. ‘We’ll do a big walk and I’ll show you some of the suppliers and where to get the best herbs. We can stay in the cottage next to my parents’ old villa. There’s a spare room there for you. I promise dinner will be worth it.’ Pip was surprised to see a slight flush on Pedro’s face before he turned away.
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