The Third Witch

by Rebecca Reisert

  On the way, I decide that the Lord of Fife, Macduff, is a good match for his openhearted lady. He seems friendly and as transparent as water. In the middle of the afternoon we finally reach Inverness. Lord Macduff parts from me at the gates of the castle, explaining that he and his men do not come into the castle with me.They are to lodge at a nearby abbey to leave room for the king and his great company in the castle chambers.

  The gates are closed, so I bang the heavy knocker until they jerk open. The unkempt, stinking porter stands there, barring my way. “Why, ’tis the sore-licking, donkey-breath, castle-fleeing slug-heart of a brother to the leak-eyed halfwit who helps in the kitchen. Come to lap tongue ’gainst the shoes of the king, did you?” The breath that pours out from his huge mouth feels as black as the stubs of his few rotting teeth.

  “I have returned. I must go to the kitchen.”

  He roars with laughter till he chokes. Only after he has coughed up a mouthful of black bile does he say, “So you think you can just amble up, pretty as you please, and I will let you in? You pox-riddled pup, is that your game?”

  “I need to enter.” By the bones of all the saints, I did not come this far to be turned away at the gates.

  His eyes glitter like pools of blood in the moonlight. “ ’Twill make Master Cook as angry as a tipsy hornet to have you return.” He spits. “ ’Tis a fair thought. Now that the nation is at peace, let us have battle in the kitchen. So enter, miscreant. Brew us some discord along with your soups.”

  He steps aside, and I run through the courtyard to the kitchen.

  Never have I seen such a bustle in the kitchen. Many lads I have never seen before hop about with bowls and pitchers. I see Brude hunched over a table, stuffing dried dates and apricots into a halfroasted goose. Master Cook stands stirring a cauldron over the fire, his face anxious. The room is filled with the smells of roasted meat and spices.

  I see Pod sitting on a sack, plucking the feathers from a swan. There is a trickle of blood running down the swan’s neck onto his legs. The blood against the white feathers is an ugly sight. I feel such a rush of fondness toward him that I am almost dizzy.

  Pod looks up. He sees me. At first he looks stunned, and then joy spreads across his face like melted butter.

  “Gilly! Gilly! You’ve come back!”

  He lets the swan tumble to the earthen floor and runs to me and hugs me so tight I can barely breathe. I feel uncomfortable. It is not safe to care this much about him. Still I thump him on the back a few times, and then stand there, waiting for him to let go. His shouts attract the attention of the workers in the kitchen. The other workers look up at us and start to whisper among themselves. Master Cook sees me. He looks more oily than ever with fat drops of sweat on his forehead and cheeks. He hands his spoon to a nearby lad, and then he marches over to where I stand by the door.

  “So the prodigal son comes home, no doubt expecting us to kill the fatted calf for him.” He calls out, “Brude! Brude!”

  Brude looks up and grins. His grin is not pleasant. “Yes, sir?”

  “Fetch the fatted calf! Gilly has deigned to come back to us.”

  I feel my cheeks grow red, but I stand my ground.

  “Nay, why stop at a calf? Fetch the whole herd! This filthy urchin that I took in from the goodness in my heart, from my unquenchable font of human kindness—what does he do to repay my generosity? Does he not take off without so much as a by your leave, without so much as a begging your pardon—”

  “Sir, I do beg your—”

  “Too late! Too late!” He puts his hands on his hip. “So why have you come, swine? Surely you do not expect us to take you back. Even our Savior would not expect such forgiveness—”

  Then I see Lisette move from the fireplace to stand next to Master Cook. I want to run to her, to hug her, to smell the scent of sugar and spices that cling to her clothes. But I stay back. I was wrong to leave her without a word. She probably hates me now. I don’t want to meet her eyes, but I force my chin to raise up, and I study her face but I cannot read her reaction. For a moment she studies me, as if deciding how to respond to my return, and then she turns to Master Cook. “Ah, Master Aswald,” she says in her warm voice with its thread of an accent, “of a certainty, this little one was wrong to go without taking leave of you. That much is certain. But I gave him permission to go.”

  My eyes open wide in amazement. She is lying. I told no one when I left. She seems to be helping me, but I do not understand. Ihave done nothing to earn this kindness. Can it be that she still cares for me, even after I have betrayed her trust?

  Lisette wipes her hands on her apron. “Master Aswald, there was a problem in the family, and Gilly had to depart quickly.”

  Master Cook frowns. “I thought he had no family except this brother here.”

  I say quickly, “ ’Twas an uncle on my father’s side.”

  Master Cook looks unconvinced so I add, “Twice removed!”

  Master Cook continues to look unconvinced.

  “ ’Twas an accident with an oxcart,” I say.

  “I do not think—” Master Cook begins.

  Lisette interrupts him. “Yes, the lad was wrong, very wrong, but this can be sorted out later. With the preparations for tonight’s feast, we have much to do, and this naughty boy knows his way around the kitchen and is quick with his hands. Let him help out tonight, and in the morning you can take him to task. The more able workers you have, the more you can do to show off your very great art.”

  Master Cook bites his lip, considering her words. Then he glares at me and shouts, “You can begin by scrubbing out those pots.”

  He gestures to a mountain of filthy pots, platters, and serving ware.

  Brude says, “You are not going to take that gangly-legged village snipe—”

  “Do not question my authority!” Master Cook thunders. He gives Brude a clout on the head. The other kitchen lads elbow each other and snicker. Master Cook shoots me a poisonous look. “And you, goose grease that you are, if you have indeed come back to work, get to work.”

  I fill my arms with a pile of crockery and stalk out to the scullery shed.

  AS THE AFTERNOON PASSES, I cannot get ahead in my work. Every time I finish an armload of pots, I return to the kitchen to find two armloads waiting. I use sand on the roasting pans, but I draw bucket after bucket of water from the well in which to dunk thebowls and pitchers. The day grows unpleasantly warm. My tunic is soaked with sweat and dishwater, and my arms and legs grow spattered with grease. Once Pod sneaks out to help me, but Brude comes looking for him and marches him back to the kitchen to peel onions. Partway through the afternoon, Lisette wanders in and hands me a tankard of ale. I feel very shy around her. I am ashamed of leaving her the way I did, and I am eager to make her like me again.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Lisette snorts. “You—I have not forgiven. I have no respect for you. But that little one in the kitchen, your little brother—for him I would do much. And he loves you. Each night you were gone, he cried himself to sleep. Your behavior has been abominable. Of a certainty, you are a child of the devil. But that little one, he is an angel child, and so I convince Master Aswald to take you back.”

  I will not let her see how much I care about her opinion of me. In this world, caring makes you weak. So I keep my voice light. “Still, I say ’twas kind of—”

  Lisette leans close. Her look is threatening. “But should you leave again like that—farewell. Adieu! I will not take you back again.” I can tell she means this.

  She starts to leave. I call out quickly, “Lisette—wait!”

  She turns back. She folds her arms across her broad chest. “I have much work to do.”

  “Lisette, I—I heard talk—when I was traveling. I heard”—I fumble for acceptable words—“a prediction that his lordship is poised on the edge of ruin. And yet the king comes here—but if He is facing His ruin—”

  Lisette gives a snort. “Then you heard lies, for his lords
hip has never been more honored than he is tonight.”

  She leaves. I am so confused and angry. I go to all the trouble to bring Mad Helga three pieces of His heart, we travel for more than a seven-night to confront Him with our strange babble, Nettle says she sees His doom, and what is the outcome? Our king rewards Him and honorsHim with a visit. I bang my hand against a bucket until my hand is sore. “God rot them! Damn them! May their souls rot in hell.”

  BY THE END of the afternoon, my fingers are raw from the work. My head keeps drumming the refrain, It can’t be. We cast a spell, and He ends up with more honor than before.

  I picture Nettle and Mad Helga gasping with thirst, and I stand there with a pitcher of water, refusing to give them a drink. I picture them starving, reaching their skinny arms toward me, imploring food, and I hold the haunch of roasted pork just out of their reach. I picture them drowning in the brook, begging me to save them, and I stand on the bank and laugh.

  The dreadful notion hits me: I must think of a new plan.

  I slip my fingers into my girdle to touch my dagger to give me courage, and my fingers pull out a small packet of ground herbs securely wrapped in a scrap of cloth. For a moment I cannot think what this is, and then I remember. The night before we left the hut to go north, I filched this mixture from Nettle’s store of herbs. Nettle kept this particular compound in a small sealed clay jar. She used it only for those who were mad and had strange visions. “Sometimes,” she used to say, “when a soul is far gone in madness and naught else can work, this concoction can bring that soul home again.” I reached out a finger to sample the powder, but Nettle slapped my finger away. “ ’Tis not for the sensible. For one who is not mad, in small doses, these herbs play strange tricks on the mind. In larger doses, belly cramps and convulsions and screams that the devils are eating you alive.”

  An idea begins to curl around my brain. Perhaps I can find a way to drop these herbs into His food. Surely, if He begins to rant and roll on the ground with belly cramps in the presence of the king, surely this will lead to His disgrace. Can there be a way, I wonder, to sneak into the banquet hall tonight and sprinkle some in his soup or sauce—

  “I crave your pardon!”

  My mouth falls open in surprise.

  T W E N T Y - E I G H T

  A YOUNG NOBLEMAN stands in the doorway to the scullery shed. He is the most handsome young man I have ever seen. He is tall and slender and dressed in silken clothes of deep green and gold. His hair, too, is silken, the color of a roasted chestnut. His beautiful head is large for his body, but it has a finely drawn face with heavy-lidded eyes and a rosy mouth. It is a face that would not look amiss on the neck of Saint John in an illuminated gospel. I suddenly long to run my fingers across those heavy eyelids, to stroke that soft mouth. What would it be like to kiss that mouth? With a start, I jerk my thoughts back to the moment. I reckon the young man’s age at the border of twenty. I wonder if the fine ladies at court are mad for his eyes and tender lips.

  He laughs. “I throw myself on your mercy, lad. I pray you, come to my aid.”

  Although the sight of him makes me a little breathless—and very aware of my filthy appearance—I tilt my chin up boldly and make my voice stern. “And what business does a fine lord like yourself have in the kitchen quarters? Do you need me to carry a message for you?”

  He laughs again. “ ’Tis just my stomach is devilishly empty. I was hoping to beg some bread, a slice of cheese or dried meat—anything.”

  “This is the scullery, sire. Not the pantry. Not the kitchen. Those are the places to find food.” I frown. “I do not know why you seek food now. There will be a huge feast tonight—for the king, you know.”

  The corners of his mouth turn down, but his eyes continue to laugh. “I told my stomach as much, but it—cheeky beggar that it is—whines that it cannot wait that long.”

  I want to smile back, but I will my face to stay stern. “In any case, I cannot help you here. Go to the kitchen if you wish to find food.”

  He gives a loud sigh—so loud that I suspect him of playacting. “I did venture as far as the kitchen door, but inside was such a fury of cooking that I did not have the courage to proceed.” He shakes his head. More playacting. “In this last war I learned that I do not fear to face armed soldiers, but to face an angry cook—that heroic feat is beyond me.”

  I refuse to respond to his foolery, although something deep inside me is laughing. “The kitchen workers have been toiling since sunup to prepare the feast. There’s no one free to fix you a private meal.”

  I make a great show of emptying a bucket of dirty water out the door. He goes down on one knee. “Lad, I throw myself on your mercy. I do not ask that anyone wait on me. Just point me to a loaf of bread or a wheel of cheese.” He pulls a knife out of his sheath. “See. I have my carving knife all whetted and ready. Surely you would not deny a starving man!”

  My smile—a traitor to my will—shows itself on my face.

  He smiles back. “I ask only that you guide me through the labyrinth of the kitchen to the grail of cheese at its center.”

  Now I make a great show of sighing loudly. “I must fetch more water at the well. Since we’ll be right by the kitchen door, ’twill be not a very hard task for me to show you where the cheese is kept. But mind you, do not get in the way of the cooks.”

  “You are a veritable prince among the kitchen boys.” He picks up the second bucket. “At least I can work for my food.”

  I thereupon hold out the first bucket to him. He looks surprised, and then he takes it with a laugh. “Lad, you are a hard taskmaster.”

  After directing him to leave the buckets by the well, I lead him to where the cheese is kept. I fold the cloth back enough for him to cut himself a wedge, and while he does so, I filch a small warm loaf off the baking tray. I toss it to him, and he catches it with one hand.

  Several workers glance at us curiously, but no one says anything. The pace is feverish and tense in the kitchen. Already huge platters have been heaped with all manner of wondrous confections. I grow dizzy at the smell and sight of so much food, but the young man does not even notice the great bounty.

  He holds his knife above the wheel of cheese. “Shall I cut you some?” he asks.

  I would dearly love some cheese, but I dare not try the temper of Master Cook so I shake my head and leave the kitchen. To my surprise, the beautiful young nobleman follows me out. As I fill my buckets at the well, he munches away.

  “Did you come with the king’s party?” I ask him.

  “That I did.” He takes a bite of the bread, chews it, swallows, then says, “In fact, I follow him everywhere.”

  “He must have great trust in you.”

  He smiles as if I have said something comical. “I have been led to believe that is so.” Then his face grows serious. “And I hope ever to repay that trust.”

  I toy with the notion of asking this young man’s aid to get close enough to Him to drop my mixture of herbs in His dish, but I cannot think of how to broach my request. So I say, “You are young to be a close companion to the king. Has he known you long?”

  “Since my birth.”

  I pick up the buckets. “Then is your father some great personage at court?”

  He laughs so loud that I fear someone from the kitchen will come out to investigate. “He is indeed,” he finally says.

  I begin to walk back to the scullery shed. He follows me. “Is your father also here?” I ask.

  He nods and takes another bite.

  “Is he also close to the king?”

  He nods again. “No man is closer to the king than my father.”

  I suspect him of boasting and exaggerating his connections in order to impress a simple kitchen lad, but before I can ask any more questions, another lord bustles up to us. He is finely dressed, although not quite as finely dressed as the young man with me. This new lord is older, perhaps Nettle’s age. To my astonishment, he dips his head down and up in a bow before he speaks.
“My lord, your father craves a word with you before dinner. He is in the garden with the lady of the castle. If you will follow me, Prince Malcolm, I will escort you to him.”

  Prince Malcolm! The king’s son! I turn to him with accusation in my eye. He had no right to make sport of me that way.

  Clearly unrepentant, he winks at me. “I thank you for saving my life,” he says. Then he follows the other lord across the courtyard, still munching his bread and cheese.

  TO MY CHAGRIN, because I am in such disgrace, I am not allowed to help with serving the great feast—not even with running the platters of food to the entrance of the Great Hall. Instead I am condemned to the inferno of the scullery shed, washing and scouring through the night.

  JUDGING FROM THE SOUNDSI HEAR, the feast is a merry one. And the workers in the kitchen seem jubilant about their results. After a long while, the sounds start to die down. Lisette and Pod appear in the doorway.

  “I saved you some food!” Pod announces, a broad smile on his face. He holds out a napkin filled with bits of roasted meat. “I could not bring you any of the sauces. Lisette said she did not think the napkin would take kindly to them, but the meat is very good evenon its own.” He lays the napkin down on the table on which the clean dishware is stacked. I am touched by his thoughtfulness.

  Lisette whisks two speckled buns and a handful of broken wafers out of her pocket and places this bounty next to the napkin.

  “Not even Master Aswald would forbid you from eating.”

  I doubt her, but later that evening, when Master Cook peeks in on me, it is clear that he is giddy with success and wine.

  “They praised my cooking! Even the king himself—the king, Gilly! He said that none of his cooks can touch my way with a savory sauce! Finish the washing, lad, and tomorrow you shall begin to write down my recipes. Perhaps when I complete this, I will present a copy to the king himself!”

  It is rising midnight when I finish the last dish. All is hushed in the castle. From the door of the scullery shed, I do not see any candles alight. The only light in the courtyard is my small grease lamp. I have saved Lisette’s wafers and one of the buns to eat when I finish, so I perch on a tabletop and start to nibble. I am so tired I almost fall asleep in mid-bite. I wonder where I am to sleep for the fragment of night that remains. But I console myself with the thought that anyplace will serve since the night is warm although mist has been pouring into the courtyard like smoke from a green chip fire.