Beck: a fairy tale

by Nina Clare

  Mistress Wheedle chuckled. “Only works on young maidens that have summoned the help of the fair folk with their tears. And I ain’t been a young maiden for many a year.” She turned away and lurched towards the kitchens.

  Kat looked after her, and considered throwing the useless piece of rock into the well. But that would be ungrateful to the old woman’s act of kindness, futile though it was. She tucked the rock inside the neckline of her gown and bent down to put her yoke of pails about her shoulders and struggle back to the kitchen.

  “Why, Mistress Wheedle!” cried Cook. “What brings you to my kitchen on such a morning? Has my lady sent for you again?”

  “I’ve brought what your lady asked me for. She forgot to send someone to fetch ‘em, and as she’s on her travels tomorrow, I took it on myself to bring ‘em. They’ll be needed, you mark Old Mother Wheedle’s words.” The old woman had seated herself before the fire. “I’ll just warm me chilblains through, and I’ll take a drop and bite of something to warm the inners on this winter day before I see your lady.”

  Kat led Mistress Wheedle upstairs where Lady Beck was directing Red Harry and Ned in carrying chests and boxes downstairs for the journey.

  “Mistress Wheedle to wait on you, my lady,” said Kat with a curtsey. Kat was surprised by the look of stark fear that clouded her mistress’s face at her announcement. Lady Beck staggered backwards and looked as though she would stumble over the open chest behind her. Kat instinctively ran forward to catch her by the elbows just in time to stop her fall. She led her to a nearby chair, and then stepped away quickly, a little dismayed at her unbidden handling of her mistress, which was not permitted. She had acted on the moment without forethought. Fortunately, Lady Beck did not show any displeasure, but the look of fear still haunted her face as she contemplated the appearance of Mistress Wheedle.

  “Don’t you be afeared, your ladyship,” crooned the old woman, coming forward a few steps and rummaging in her basket. “I’ve brought them charms I was telling you of.”

  She held up a little bag of rough-woven linen. “There’s rose petals in this bag that was picked from a tree where a unicorn laid down under to sleep. You put this bag under your girl-child’s pillow and she’ll sleep sweetly and grow a pretty face, and a sweet temper. And she’ll only marry the man she loves.”

  The old woman held out the little bag, but Lady Beck remained seated, as if all strength had drained from her.

  Mistress Wheedle put the bag down on a nearby table. She rummaged in her basket again, muttering to herself as she struggled to find what she was looking for. “Ah, here ‘tis.” She pulled out another rough-woven linen bag, larger in size, and filled with something that rustled.

  “You make a tea from this, your ladyship, a pinch or two, and you sip it in the morning before you get up from your bed. It will help in your condition.” She patted her grubby fingers upon her belly. “It will keep all things well, your ladyship. No more troubles as you’ve had before. Old Mother Wheedle’s helped more women bring lusty babes to the world than the queen has jewels.”

  Lady Beck still sat passively, with a look of fear upon her face. Mistress Wheedle put the bag of herbs on the table next to the smaller bag.

  There came the sound of footsteps to the chamber, and Madame Labelle appeared, pausing in the doorway to regard Lady Beck, noting the look upon her face, and immediately understanding why.

  “Mistress Wheedle, my lady cannot take your charms and potions,” she told the woman briskly, crossing the room to take one of Lady Beck’s lifeless hands. “She cannot take them, for she cannot, she must not have a girl.” She said this in a lowered voice, as though Lady Beck would not be able to hear her.

  Mistress Wheedle put her head to one side. “Cannot have a girl-child?”

  “No!” said Madame Labelle. “If she has a girl...” She broke off, and glanced down at her mistress who was now beginning to weep softly. “If she has a girl...” her voice dropped to a whisper, “the marquess will send us all away.”

  Mistress Wheedle shook her cloth bound head, a few straggles of lank, grey hair shaking loose with the movement.

  “Don’t you be fretting, your ladyship,” she counselled. “Have courage. “ ‘Tisn’t for men to say what will be the happenings and goings on of who comes into the world and who goes out of it. What will be will be. Your ladyship is young, and she will see good yet. All her days won’t be wintertime. Old Mother Wheedle can see that much.”

  Lady Beck looked up at the old woman who stood tattered and dirty before her, offering words of hope. She motioned to her ama, and Madame Labelle, understanding her meaning, reached out to the table where the linen bags lay. She gave them to her mistress who took them to her lap.

  “I thank you, Mistress Wheedle for your kind gifts and counsel,” Lady Beck said in a faint voice.

  Mistress Wheedle looked disconcerted; she did not like the word “gifts”, it implied that she would not be paid for her troubles. The unicorn petals were priceless.

  But her concern melted at Lady Beck’s signal to Madame Labelle to pay her. The tall, black-gowned lady reluctantly took a purse, heavy with coin, from her belt. She opened it to count its contents, but Lady Beck said, “Give her all the purse, Ama. She has done a kind thing to come to me today. She has reminded me of something I had forgotten. To have courage.”

  Madame Labelle looked grim, but she held out the heavy purse, and Mistress Wheedle hurried forward to grasp her prize.

  “Maid, see Mistress Wheedle downstairs,” Madame Labelle ordered Kat.

  Kat turned to lead the way.

  “Wait, girl,” said an accented voice; Kat paused and turned round. “I thank you for helping me when I felt faint,” said Lady Beck. “I have just decided that I would have you to come with me tomorrow. I think you will be of help.”

  Kat stared at her in astonishment. Was she dreaming? Did Lady Beck just say that she – Kat – would not have to stay here alone without Penny, being bullied by old Catchpole? Did she really say such a thing?

  “Close your mouth, girl,” said Madame Labelle. “Do not stand gaping.”

  Kat hadn’t realised her mouth had fallen open in her surprise. She closed it with a snap, but could not help a broad smile from spreading across her pale, heart-shaped face. She beamed with delight and gave a deep curtsey, not a shallow bob of acquiescence, but a full, deep curtsey of homage to her now beloved mistress who had saved her from such deep misery with a few words. She left the chamber feeling as though she were floating, having had heavy irons taken from her ankles.

  “Did I not say the charm would bring you good luck, little maiden?” said Mistress Wheedle, pinching her arm as she followed Kat down the stairs. Kat put her hand to her gown where the stone was tucked inside. She did not answer Mistress Wheedle.

  But she did wonder.

  The Royal City

  After nearly a week of slow and weary travel Lady Beck and her household arrived at Beck House. The marquess had gone ahead to attend at court, leaving a party of his men-at-arms to escort his marchioness and children on their journey.

  Kat and Penny’s first sighting of the royal city astonished them. They had never seen so many people in one place. They had never seen so many streets, so many houses, so many buildings squashed so close together you could barely see the sky between them. They had never seen such busyness, such shouting of wares, driving of animals, rattling of carts.

  And they had never smelt anything so overwhelming. A mingling of rotting carcass remains outside butchery shops, animal droppings on the roads, midden heaps about the houses, fish from the fish-sellers near the river, all strangely mingled with the aroma of pies and bread from the bake houses, and stale beer from the inns. It was a relief to reach Beck House where the roads were paved and fairly clean, and the houses were grand, mostly made of brick, with enormous gardens – nothing like the wood and thatch houses all crammed together in a haze of wood smoke in the poorer parts of the city they had passed through.


  Beck House sat on the waterfront and was a far newer and grander home than Foxeby Manor. Kat and Penny passed through a dizzying maze of halls and galleries, richly furnished and decorated, and populated with servants with strange accents, for the city folk spoke very differently from the native dialect of the sisters.

  There was no time to rest from the gruelling journey, Penny must settle Arthur and Percival in their chambers, and Kat must be at the bidding of Madame Labelle in looking to the needs of Lady Beck.

  The weeks passed by. Winter gave way to a damp and gusty springtime. The days lengthened into summer, and Lady Beck’s belly swelled beneath her specially altered gowns. Kat had been instructed on making Mistress Wheedle’s infusion, and she brought it to her mistress every morning.

  The marquess had returned to Stoneyshire in the spring, for his fears had been realised – the Duke of Glosner had demanded his aid in marching into the northern territory to regain the towns that had been taken. Lady Beck would not return to Stoneyshire until she had been safely delivered of her child, and the baby was thriving well enough to endure the journey.

  Kat and Penny were delighted not to have to return to Foxeby Manor for a long time hence. Life in Beck House was hard work, but it was far more comfortable than the draughty old manor, and their position amongst the servant ranks was elevated from that which they had occupied at Foxeby.

  There were young lads and girls at Beck House who arrived at dawn to tend the fires, heat the water for Lady Beck’s bath, clean the grates and floors, wash the dishes, fetch wood and water, empty the chamber pots. There was no heavy housework for the sisters to do. Penny assisted in the nursery under a very capable new nurse, who took no nonsense from Lord Arthur. And Kat assisted Madame Labelle in waiting on Lady Beck, who spent much of her time resting under the orders of the physician, her spirits sinking periodically into dejection as she fretted over the future loss of her ama if she could not persuade the marquess to mercy when her daughter was born.

  Knowing that the marquess would spend very little time at Beck House, his good lady-wife engaged an Etaliano cook – Maestro Martino – who brought some comfort to the troubled marchioness with his almondo biscottini and honeyed stroffolini, and her favourite dish of all – pandorono – a fluffy, golden cake that filled the kitchens with a lemony aroma.

  Maestro Martino took a liking to the pale-faced sisters, declaring they were piccoli uccelli – little birds – just like his two nieces in Etally. He fed them up with extra slices of his bread and cakes. He let them taste the spiced soups, the creamy gnocchi, and the rich tortes that he cooked to satisfy the marchioness’s growing appetite. Lady Beck declared that her daughter would be born wanting nothing but pandorono and biscottini, for that was all her mother dined on while she grew within her.

  “And why not?” said Madame Labelle. “Who would choose an Anglianese stew pot with little salt nor herbs, and bread as hard as tree bark? Who would not choose lamanisa and riso nellini over the tasteless gruel and bland dishes of the Anglianese?” It was no wonder to her that her lady would only eat cake when she was at the manor, for the marquess would have no foreign or spiced food at his daily table.

  Sometimes Kat was sent out into the city on errands with Bellchior driving the open carriage. Kat never tired of looking about her in the city. She marvelled at the royal parks and fountains, she loved to see the boats and barges upon the river, and despites the city smells, she was fascinated by the busy streets and crowds. Penny said she found the city frightening, it was too noisy, and there were so many strange looking people who stared and tried to sell things to her. But Kat liked the hustle and bustle. She recalled how she had used to think Bellchior was strange and exotic looking with his black skin and bright, white teeth. But in the city there were many black skinned people, and all shades of brown skin too. Even some of the rich ladies and men had dark skin, she had noticed; the city was teeming with all that was different and unusual. She heard different languages spoken, saw unusual fashions worn – how small her world had been until she had come to Beck House. And how much easier and more interesting life had become these past months.

  She often found her fingers resting on her gown where she kept the piece of stone tucked inside. And she wondered if her change in fortune was really linked to it, as the old herb-woman had said it was. But it surely could not be. Could it?

  “Maestro Martino, it is not a slur on your cooking – my lady adores your piccante stufato and your crema pasticciera. Mistress Effie has come only to cook for the marquess – for he must have a plain Anglianese supper or he will throw the dishes at the servers.”

  Madame Labelle spoke calmly and firmly but she kept a wary eye on the large tureen ladle that Maestro Martino was brandishing in circles around him. The scullery maid and the under-cooks had fled from the kitchen as soon as his voice had risen from his usual deep baritone to a tenor. The higher Maestro Martino’s voice became, the worse his temper. He was reaching contralto now, and the tureen ladle was swinging through the air like a truncheon.

  “Maestro Martino, my lady still wishes for you to cook for her, indeed, she will eat nothing but your own cooking now.”

  “So why this little dumpy woman who looks like an uncooked gnocchi – why she come into my kitchen to make “chicken pie” and “plain custard”? Why – you tell me! Why? Maestro Martino share kitchen with no one. NO ONE I tell you!”

  “She is to cook for the marquess – no one else,” said Madame Labelle firmly.

  “I share kitchen with no one!”

  He began venting his anger on the butcher’s block with the ladle, and Madame Labelle, seeing that she was defeated, left the kitchen.

  She found Mistress Effie cowering in the buttery with her apron over her face. “I ain’t going in there – he’s a madman!”

  “Oh, Ama, what is to be done?” said Lady Beck wearily from the couch where she was resting in the south gallery; even there the shrieking and bashing from the kitchens reached her.

  “He will calm down soon,” Madame Labelle said.

  “But what about Lord Beck’s supper?”

  “Mistress Effie will prepare the food at home, and the footmen will collect it each day. We will heat the dishes up and serve them to the marquess. All will be well, my lady.”

  Lady Beck let her head fall back against the cushions on the couch. She felt heavier with child than ever that day. The baby was restless, pushing and kicking her little fists and feet into her mother’s body as though she were eager to leave her confines. She felt restless herself. Perhaps it was only because of her anxiety over her husband’s return to Beck House that day. He had sent word that the borders of Stoneyshire were secure again after the duke’s successful attack on the north, and he would join his family in the city, though much of his time would be spent at court. Everyone wanted to be at court in these uncertain days, to be the first to hear of news.

  But she was comforted by also receiving word that her youngest brother was to call that day. He had recently arrived in Angliana as aide to the Portguan ambassador. Now that the king was failing in health the foreign ambassadors were flocking to court to see what would happen. Would the king recover? Would his young heir soon ascend to the throne? And why did the king’s brother, the duke of Glosner, act as though he himself were monarch in these days? All eyes were on the court of Angliana at this time.

  “Send word to Maestro Martino that my brother will be here for supper also, and as a most honoured guest, Maestro’s best dishes must be prepared,” said Lady Beck. “That will appease him.”

  She knew when the message had reached him some minutes later because the crashing and high-pitched shrieks subsided. The household breathed a sigh of relief and quietly resumed their duties.

  “I don’t want a bath!”

  It took all Kat and Penny’s strength to wrestle Percy into the bathtub, lined with linen and half filled with heated water.

  “You shouldn’t have played by the river at l
ow tide, then,” replied Kat holding him down while Penny scrubbed the mud off him with a cloth.

  “And you should be thankful it was us who found you, if Nurse had not been away this afternoon and had seen you covered head to foot in stinking mud she would have shown you the rod and a cold bath.”

  “Arthur made me,” protested Percy from beneath the waterfall of water being poured over his unruly thatch of hair.

  “It’s a good thing that Arthur will be soon gone to Lord Orlan’s then,” said Kat. “Seeing as you do everything he tells you to, even when you know full well you are forbidden to play at the water’s edge.”

  “Arthur made me,” he wailed.

  “Well if your father hears about this when he comes this day, Arthur will get a whipping for certain. And what would your uncle think? He’s coming all the way from Portgua to see you for the first time – what would he think if he saw he had a mud-covered water rat for a nephew?”

  “Close your eyes, Percy,” said Penny gently, for she always felt pity for little Percy’s scrapes. I”m going to soap your hair now.”

  “Whose horse is that?” demanded the marquess when he arrived at Beck House late in the afternoon.

  “Lord Amando, milord,” answered the stable-hand who came to take the marquess’s horse.

  “Who?”

  “The Viscount of Arcado. Her ladyship’s brother.”

  The marquess dismounted heavily with a grunt. As soon as the young hand took the reins Duco whinnied indignantly and tried to nip him.

  “Where’s the blackamoor?” growled the marquess. “No one else can handle Duco.”

  The marquess, saddle sore from the day’s ride, made his way stiffly up to the house. More darned foreigners! A man travels half way across the darned country to get to the comforts of his own home, and if it isn’t filled with more darned foreigners than when he left it!