Eat, Drink, and Be Buried

by Peter King

  "By the way," I added, "the venison from the culling-presumably it's hanging?"

  "But of course," Victor said.

  "So it will be ready in a couple of days, won't it? We can make good use of that."

  We made plans for cooking the venison, which Gontier said was always popular and considered a real medieval treat. It would be even more so if the guests could see it turning on a spit.

  Victor turned to cast a critical eye on Edna's chopping technique. Her rate of chops per minute had increased noticeably. He gave her an approving nod.

  "I have to go to the storeroom," he said, "some problem with the inventory. Madeleine, tell him about your ideas on the Quaking Pudding."

  He left.

  "Well," Madeleine said, "that pudding ... I thought that we might increase the amount of both breadcrumbs and almonds. That would make it less wobbly. Then in keeping with the trend for healthier foods, we could cut down on the cream and replace part of it with yogurt."

  "Excellent ideas," I agreed.

  "Then there's the preparation. They used to steam puddings always in the old days. This one would be ideal for microwaving. Of course, we wouldn't let the guests know about that."

  "Of course not. Let them think it's been steamed for four hours."

  We talked on about other dishes, then I made a half turn to leave. It was a Columbo-style prelude to departure.

  "You do a great job here in the kitchen," I told her. "Aside from cooking for all the guests. Those stuntmen seem to have tremendous appetites."

  "They eat more than the horses, I tell them," Madeleine said with a smile.

  "It's good to see how you all get along together so well," I went on. "You must get to know their likes and dislikes."

  "Oh, we do. Of course, some of the serving girls-the wenches, as they call them-know them better than we do."

  "I suppose the stuntmen all like hearty dishes of meat and potatoes best," I ventured.

  "Most of them."

  "Then there's Richard Harlington-he has his preferred dishes too, I suppose."

  "He likes to eat a salad before he goes to a joust or do some kind of battle," she said, still in a chatty mood.

  I tried to keep the conversation the same way. "Not the same one surely? I would have thought he's the type to like variety."

  "I think it's always the same one. Louise would know more about that than I do. She's the head server." She gave a meaningful smile. "She has a crush on him."

  I wondered how long Richard had been seeing jean Arkwright. Would Louise have felt jilted or at least slighted? Not nearly enough motive for murder surely ... but how much was there I did not know?

  I nodded. It indicated that I couldn't care less about the to mantic intrigue at the castle. "What do you recommend for lunch?" I asked her, making it clear that this was a much more important question.

  Her recommendations were good. Gemelli, the twirled pasta shapes, had been cooked in a large volume of salted water. Salt enhances the flavor of the pasta and helps the water return to a rolling boil more quickly. It is easy to tell when this has been done as the pasta has no tendency to stick.

  While still hot, it had then been tossed with minced garlic, parsley, basil, hot red pepper flakes, olive oil, wine vinegar, and bocconcini, bite-sized lumps of mozzarella cheese.

  "It's almost as easy and much more satisfying," Madeleine had said, "to cook pasta the proper way." I was now learning that she certainly knew the proper way.

  Tempting as many of the other dishes were, I managed to resist, and concluded the meal with a dessert of bananas and nuts.

  I took a stroll through the grounds and met Neville Woodward, the cousin to whom Angela had introduced me. He had that same languid air that I had previously attributed to his noble background, though now I suddenly wondered about that. Was his apparent nobility only a pose?

  "How's the foreign trading?" I asked affably. "Is the guilder going great or is the florin floundering?"

  The sneer that I had suspected before was still lurking. Perhaps it had been a seesaw morning on the exchanges.

  "Good days and other days," he said as if he did not want to talk about it.

  "Tomorrow should be one of those good days," I said brightly. "The Battle of Moreston Marsh followed by a banquet. Can't ask for more than that."

  He looked as if he were going to ask for a great deal more than that. Deciding I could not help him get it, he curled his lip. "They love play-acting here."

  "Brings in the crowds," I reminded him.

  "Bloody proletariat."

  "They pay the bills. The castle couldn't stay open without the-er-the people." I was being mildly argumentative in the hope that I could learn more about him and his views.

  "I'd run it without all these milling hordes," he said. Maybe he was nobility, after all. He had the attitude of a lord of the manor ... from five hundred years ago.

  "It would be a tough proposition," I said cheerfully. "It costs twenty-five thousand pounds a year just to control the woodworm."

  He grunted something, but I couldn't tell whether he was sneering at a paltry twenty-five thousand or expressing distaste for woodworm.

  "I don't think I'd want the job of running the castle," I told him. "Too many headaches. Still, we're all different. You'd probably enjoy it." I didn't think that for a minute, but it did pry a response out of him.

  "I probably would," he said, lifting his chin. It gave him a Mussolini-like appearance that would have alarmed the serfs.

  "Are you taking part in the battle?" I asked.

  "I do from time to time," he said, and I waited for a yawn to accompany the comment. Instead, he said, "But I have better things to do tomorrow."

  "Got to keep chasing those euros, I suppose?"

  "Bank of Peru, actually."

  He tossed the name out as he walked off. I tossed a "Good luck!" after him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The morning of the battle dawned hazy and only just dry. As it was just a reenactment, weather conditions were important only from an entertainment and profit point of view, not a matter of life or death.

  I felt I needed extra sustenance to face the looming conflict, so I had two eggs, bacon, sausage, and a slice of black pudding. Norman gave me a perfunctory wave from another table. Angela was not far away, but she had her back to me. Felicity came in, spotted me as I was about to leave, and came over to sit with me.

  "Have any plans for watching the battle this afternoon?" she asked.

  "My number one plan is to stay out of the way of stray arrows. I heartily recommend that you do the same."

  "I'll make you a deal. We'll sit together. You extend to me the protection of your plan for avoiding arrows and I'll fill you in on the history of the battle and give you a running commentary on who's who-as well as who was who."

  I accepted. We agreed on when and where to meet. Felicity left and the room emptied soon after. An hour later, I was still there.

  Screens were stacked for the use of groups who wanted some privacy. I had moved one and set it by a corner table where I could see and not be seen. After a while, serving girls came out and set the tables for lunch. Time passed.

  Large trolleys suddenly came rattling in and the buffet trays were quickly filled. More time passed. The place was quiet. Then a serving girl came in, blond hair tied on top of her head. She carried a Styrofoam box. She looked around carefully, then went to one of the buffet tables. She opened a door to one of the refrigerated shelves below, placed the box inside, and left.

  I waited a full fifteen minutes, went over, and took out the box. It contained a salad. I sniffed it very carefully, then put it back.

  I had eaten at a more leisurely pace than usual. That ensured that meals had been served and eaten and the staff was now clearing away. Looking over them was a pleasant task; all were young and lively and eager. But I wasn't auditioning for the chorus, I was looking for Louise.

  The blond hair tied up on the top of her
head made her easy to find. She had a fresh look and bright eyes. She gave me a questioning glance as I approached her. "I'd like to talk to you for just a couple of minutes," I told her.

  "All right." She wiped her hands on a paper towel and led the way to a table that had been cleared. "Did you want something special from the kitchen?"

  "No. I'm here to advise on modifying the menus, make them more medieval, increase business," I explained as I introduced myself.

  "I know," she said. She smiled shyly. "We gossip a lot here-all girls together. Any new faces that are here more than a couple of days...

  "Good, then you know who I am. I wanted to ask you about salads."

  A momentary flicker passed across her face but I could not interpret it. Its very presence told me a lot, though.

  "Some of the regulars have their favorite foods, I know. Does anyone have a favorite salad?"

  She hesitated. "Well, Mr. McCartney likes blue cheese on his so we put out a bowl of that. The foreman of the maintenance team likes lots of croutons so we put out extra of those."

  "I didn't mean on the buffet," I said gently. "I meant individual servings."

  "The kitchen does all that. I'm just serving staff," she said, perhaps a little quickly.

  "Don't worry," I told her. "Anything you tell me will go no further."

  "Is this something to do with Kenny?" Her face changed and her tone sharpened.

  "It may be," I agreed, "but it need not involve you. Just tell me-"

  "I didn't do anything wrong!" Alarm showed plainly in her eyes.

  "I'm quite sure you didn't and you won't get into any kind of trouble." I kept my voice placatory. "But your answers may save Richard Harlington's life."

  The alarm grew. "Is he ... ?"

  "He's fine but he may be in danger. What can you tell me that will help him?"

  Madeleine's comments and the words of the stuntmen had set me on this track and I wasn't sure how to get the information out of this young woman. Telling her that his life was threatened had seemed like a good idea. Was it enough?

  I decided to throw caution to the winds and make a wild stab. "Some of the girls prepare an occasional special dish for one of their boyfriends, don't they? You do, too-you prepare a salad for Richard before he jousts. What do you season it with? Coriander, dill, mustard, cloves?"

  At least two and maybe three of those guesses registered. She did not yet have sufficient experience at evasion. I went on before she could speak.

  "I told you there will no trouble for you of any kind. I mean that."

  "Is it true Kenny was poisoned?"

  "It looks that way but it's not certain yet. In any case, I know you had nothing to do with it."

  She shook her head violently and her blond hair trembled. "I just made a special salad for Richard every time he was going to joust. I made it the way he likes it-with coriander, cloves, and dill. I put it in a chilled compartment under the buffet table so no one else would take it."

  Three spices that were strong enough to cover the taste of the owlsfoot. It might have been wolfsbane, but owlsfoot sounded more likely. Both have a bitter taste.

  "Kenny knew you prepared that salad for Richard, didn't he?" I asked.

  She nodded.

  I had a further thought. "Frank knew too." She didn't respond but I knew I was right. "But he didn't say anything because he didn't want to see you blamed."

  "I wasn't to blame, I only-"

  "I know. I know. I'll see to it."

  I spent a few more minutes setting her mind at rest. When I left, she was back to her normal cheerful demeanor. My mind wasn't at rest, though. Someone else had known about the salad. They had awaited their chance and put owlsfoot in it.

  My stroll outside was made more difficult by the activity. Seating was being erected, speakers installed on poles; vehicles of all kinds buzzed and roared, and people toiled everywhere. I returned for lunch, and, being among the earlier eaters, I was able to check quickly and find the Styrofoam box still in place. A few sniffs confirmed my previous finding.

  After that substantial breakfast, I limited myself to a slice of quiche and an apple for lunch, and an hour later I was sitting with Felicity in the rows of seats erected especially for the event. Extra flags fluttered from the battlements of the castle behind us and huge colored streamers on the walls gave it a flamboyant air. A good crowd had gathered and the speakers were playing martial music that sounded like the work of Sir William Walton.

  "You know something of the history of the castle, don't you?" Felicity asked.

  "Just the brochure," I said. "Fill me in."

  "All right. It starts with Ethelfleda, the warlike Queen of Mercia. She built a wooden fortress on this site in about A.D. 916 as defense against marauding tribes from South Wales. Sometime during the following century, it was expanded to a motte and bailey-"

  "Translation please," I requested.

  "Oh, sorry. A motte is a wooden tower perched on top of a mound of earth and surrounded by wooden palisades. A bailey is an outer court with another palisade around it. In 1068, William of Normandy, after his conquest of England, decreed the castle to Henry of Donningford. This was unusual as most such bequests were made to Norman knights." Felicity smiled. "We surmise that Henry was an English traitor."

  "A blot on the escutcheon-isn't that the phrase?"

  "Very appropriate. The period from 1100 to 1300 was the period of building-castles and cathedrals all across Europe, well over a thousand of them."

  "Wasn't that because builders had just discovered how to use stone blocks?"

  "That's right. Stone and brick. John of Lakeland came back from the Crusades and Richard the Lionheart rewarded him for his loyalty by giving him Harlington Castle. It was John of Lakeland who enlarged it enormously and gave it walls twenty feet thick. I could go on-it gets to be a catalogue of names, dates, and battles."

  "At least tell me about the Battle of Moreston Marsh," I said, "so I know which side to cheer for."

  She gave me a frown of mock reproval. "This is not a football game, it's a historical pageant."

  More spectators had arrived by now and the seats were all filled. The sky had cleared and some fuzzy white clouds cruised gently at high altitude. The stirring music was appropriately that of a prelude to battle.

  "The scene of the Battle of Moreston Marsh is as follows: about 1460, the Manor of Harlington was granted to Robert Courtenay by Henry the Sixth," Felicity began. "Robert was a rich Bristol merchant and a direct ancestor of my father. His daughter married the grandson of a previous owner of Harlington Castle and so pushed back the connection between family and castle. Now here's where the intrigue sets in-"

  "Good," I said. "I love intrigue."

  "Richard of York determined to depose Henry the Sixth and proclaim himself king. The queen, Margaret, was quite a warrior herself and gathered an army to meet Richard in battle. But Richard had moved fast from the north and he headed for London. In his path lay one obstacle ..."

  "Don't tell me. Harlington Castle."

  "You're good at this, aren't you?" She smiled.

  "But why is it called the Battle of Moreston Marsh?"

  "The land on this side of the castle was marshy in those days. Some of the attackers were caught in it. The major part of the battle, though, was right here in front of the castle."

  "So now you've brought me up to date?"

  "Yes. What happened next will be reenacted-here they come now, Richard of York's army," she said. The land in front of us fell away gently, rolling green grass with an occasional stand of trees. From that direction, an insistent drumming was audible. It persisted, then grew steadily louder. Splashes of color came into sight, battle flags in blue, green, and white. They became taller as if they were rising out of the ground.

  A shrill blare of trumpets sounded, an explicit threat augmenting the menace of the drumbeat. A line of cavalry came trotting into sight, armor gleaming, lances high and the richly caparisoned horses snort
ing as if they smelled blood.

  "In the original battle," Felicity said, "we think there were twenty rows of cavalry with at least forty men in each row."

  Her words startled me. I had become lost in the past and the magnificent display had assumed a striking if transitory reality.

  "We can't run to that many today, neither horses nor riders. As it is, we have to coopt the local riding club, the county foxhunters, and the Hertfordshire polo team."

  The cavalry was in full view now, riding toward the castle. Behind them came several rows of infantry, some with swords, some with pikes in hand. Horsemen detached themselves from the ends of the ranks and galloped out, bright-colored scarves and sashes flapping.

  "They are the officers," Felicity said.

  "Where are the defenders?" I asked.

  "We have to take some liberties with history," she said. "A few years back, we had some siege weapons built, but one collapsed and crushed a man's arm, so we've dispensed with that. Now we show the cavalry and infantry part of the battle."

  Even as she spoke, the castle gates swung open and a troop of horsemen came racing out. Flags rippled, swords came out of scabbards, and the hoofbeats were a dull thunder on the drawbridge over the moat. It was an impressive scene.

  "You should be filming this for a-" I started to say as Felicity pointed to where a battery of cameras already whirred at the foot of the castle walls.

  Ahead of the defending troops, a horse and its rider pulled out and I could see a pennant fluttering wildly. It was the scarlet, black, and gold of the Harlington family.

  "That's Richard," breathed Felicity.

  The attackers were urging their steeds into a gallop now. The crowd was completely silent as the two armies charged at one another.

  They met with a clash of steel that echoed off the castle walls like a thunderclap. Then they were fighting man-to-man, sword against sword, the horses prancing and weaving, and death a heartbeat away.