John Saturnall's Feast

by Lawrence Norfolk

Her hand still held the forgotten spoon. He bent lower and saw her lips part. Suddenly everything was clear. In the next instant, their lips would touch. He would taste her mouth. He felt her warm breath mingle with his own. But a nasal voice sounded behind him.

  ‘I see your fast is done, your ladyship.’

  The spoon dropped from Lucretia's fingers. John jerked away. Mister Pouncey stood in the doorway. Pole and Fanshawe flanked him. The steward eyed John.

  ‘It appears your efforts have pleased her ladyship.’

  John saw his own bewilderment mirrored in Lucretia's face.

  ‘Your task here is done, Mister Saturnall,’ Mister Pouncey continued. ‘You may return to the kitchen. Mister Fanshawe? Escort him out if you will.,

  Once again, the kitchen's congratulations swirled about John. Once again, the hands of his fellow cooks clapped him on the back.

  ‘Count yourself lucky,’ Philip told him.

  John nodded.

  ‘You could have been found out and booted out like Coake. Wouldn't want that, eh?’

  John shook his head.

  How had the steward known? John wondered as their praise engulfed him. He had exchanged a single baffled glance with Lucretia before Fanshawe had led him from the room, a welter of sensations whirling inside him.

  ‘Why trouble yourself?’ Philip challenged him airily when he asked what Gemma knew of Lucretia. ‘Let Piers worry about her, eh? All you need to think about now is the feast.’,

  Ox-carts piled high with firewood rumbled down the track and were unloaded into barrows in the outer yard. Billets and logs were stacked in an ever-lengthening pile behind the stables. Sacks of coke lined the west wall of the servants, yard and soon rose halfway up the window of the old buttery. A cage-spit from the Carrboro smithy arrived coated with pork fat. New fire tongs followed, then a set of pipkins and larger pots. Four new skillets arrived blue from the forge and were oiled and proved in Mister Vanian's oven before being hung with the others above the salt chest. On the bench below, Philip Elsterstreet compiled lists and tallies, calculating strikes and pecks of breadcorn to be sent from the granary to the Callock Mar-wood mill. Next to him, Colin and Luke bickered as usual.

  ‘Viscount Saye's declared against the King? You've been reading Calybute's rag,’ scoffed Colin.

  ‘Him and the Earl of Essex too,’ Luke continued doggedly. ‘Hertford and Carbery won't sit at table with them. They were here to meet Sir William again.’

  ‘The Marchioness of Charnleytoo,’ added Tam Yallop.

  The swirl of names washed over John: the Earls of Essex and Warwick, Lords Brooke and Bullenden. There were intrigues in Parliament, according to some of the men in the yard. The King should send them all home again, reckoned others. But at every mention of ‘that Devil Pym’ or ‘the blackguard Hampden’ or ‘the dullard Cromwell’ and ‘insolent Haselrig’, John's thoughts sank into his own reflections. The names rolled over him: ‘young Edward Montagu’ and ‘old Manchester's lad’ and someone called ‘Mandeville’ who were all, John realised belatedly, the same person. Master Jocelyn drilled the Estate men and some of the Household in the meadows below the ponds, drawing them up in ranks and files and marching them about. Ancient spears and pikes were disinterred from the lightless vault of the armoury and polished. But all these commotions held no more significance for John than the bakehouse's new boulting cloths held flour. The Estate carpenters had promised new kneading troughs too, that reminded him . . .

  In the cellars, the hogsheads of that year's March beer were stacked beside the tuns of weaker ale. Cages of mallards, teals, larks and thrushes quacked, twittered and chirruped from the aviary behind Diggory Wing's dovecote. The kitchens grew crowded with sacks of flour, which would have to be moved. But where? Henry Palewick's stores were already filled with sugar-loaves, cheeses, bags of bay salt and gallipots filled with conserves and preserves, pickles and conserves.

  By day, John buried himself in preparations. By night, processions of dishes once again marched through his mind: poached fish covered in cucumber scales and steaming pies filled with hashes of venison and beef and topped with golden pastry crusts. Quaking puddings and frosted cakes and cups brimming with syllabub. The dishes ascended the stairs to the Great Hall and floated forward to the High Table. There, accompanied by her groom and wrapped in shimmering silver-blue silk, waited Lucretia.

  She enjoyed a new contentment, Philip relayed to John when he asked. She loved nothing more than extolling the qualities of her future husband. She had begun work on a sampler depicting him in wool.

  Lucretia could no more draw a likeness with her needle than she could pass through its eye, John thought. Unbidden, the scents of rose water and sweet apple rose in his nostrils.

  He drowned the smells among the aromas of the spice room. Standing before the hearth, he let the great blaze dispatch the warm scent of her skin, drawing it away like woodsmoke up the chimney. He had been seized by a madness, he told himself, remembering the moment in her chamber. Only Mister Pouncey's inexplicable arrival had saved him. He thought of the lips that had parted before his own. Another moment, he insisted to himself, and he would have been lost.

  The first cattle were slaughtered and hung in Mister Underley's jointing room. The ponds were cleared of weed by the Heron Boy in readiness for netting. Fish wrapped in leathery kelp arrived in barrels from Stollport. He would prepare the dish he had served the King, John decided. This time love tokens would lie in the pool of crystal jelly: rings, an arrow, a red heart.

  The last days passed in a near-sleepless blur. As the excitement rose in the kitchen, John felt a tightening in his stomach, familiar from other feasts. The King had left London and was marching to Nottingham, reported Mercurius Bucklandicus. The Earl of Essex had stirred a rabble against him. Upstairs, the arriving guests talked of little else while their unruly servants threw the Household into uproar. It was a feast like any other, John told himself on the eve. All was as it should be. Tomorrow Lucretia would be powdered and rouged and sheathed in her silver-blue dress . . . Ready for Piers.

  ‘She's in with Sir William,’ Philip's voice said. ‘He called on her in her chambers. Gemma's just told me.’

  ‘Sir William?’ Somehow John could not imagine the Lord of Buckland mounting the stairs. Or making the walk along the passage. Knocking on the door at the end.

  ‘Some sort of commotion,’ Philip answered. ‘Sir Philemon's holding conferences in the winter parlour. A messenger was sent to Elminster.’

  ‘Now?’ queried John. It was late. The kitchen was quiet. Philip shrugged.

  ‘Maybe the King's coming back.’

  Together they walked through the passages, peering in at the jointing room and the spice room, Philip opening the doors to storerooms and the cellars. The chambers were deserted, the tired men and boys of the kitchen sleeping, but as they approached the stairs, a familiar figure stumbled down the steps.

  ‘Ah, the kitchen boy,’ Piers slurred at John. He waved a flask at them, the smell of liquor coming off him in a thick wave. The other hand held a wooden tankard.

  ‘Cook, Lord Piers,’ John corrected the youth. He and Philip exchanged glances. ‘Let us help you up the stairs.’

  ‘When I came down here to toast the bride? Let's raise a cup, eh? All those dishes you served her.’

  Piers's head swayed but his eyes fixed themselves on John. What, John wondered, had she told him? As Piers attempted to pour liquor into the mug, his legs gave way. John and Philip caught an arm each. The dead weight lolled between them.

  ‘Get your hands off me,’ Piers mumbled. ‘I can stand as well as you.’ An eye opened and settled again on John. ‘I'll serve Lady Lucy a hot dish.’

  ‘No doubt you will, Master Piers.’

  ‘All those sweetmeats. She told me all about them. Thought you'd take my place, didn't you?’ Piers's other eye opened. ‘Next to the King.’

  John said nothing. Piers was heavier than he looked. He tried to manoeuvre his half up th
e stairs. Piers waved his flask again.

  ‘Let's toast the bride,’ he offered once more with a leer. ‘Raise a cup, eh, kitchen boy? Since you can't raise her skirts . . .’

  A cold anger washed over John. With an unhurried gesture, he reached over and gripped the youth by his lank hair. Piers's head felt heavy but unresistant. John knocked it against the wall then made to repeat the blow. Philip lunged for his arm. The trio swayed on the step, Philip pulling at John and John struggling with the drunken Piers who seemed barely aware of the assault.

  ‘Stop it!’ Philip hissed. ‘John!’

  John released the youth. At the top of the stairs Pandar Crockett appeared in an ancient yellow nightshirt and cap. A bucket dangled from his hand.

  ‘Pandar,’ Piers slurred. ‘There you are, Pandar.’

  ‘Now, now, now, Lord Piers. In our cups again, are we?’

  Before Piers could answer, a deeper voice bellowed.

  ‘Down there, is he?’ Sir Hector Callock stamped down the stairs accompanied by two footmen. At the sight of his father, Piers offered a sickly grin. Sir Hector gripped his son by the collar. ‘Drunk even tonight? Upstairs, you sot! Word has come from the King . . .’ It seemed as if he might say more but the presence of John and Philip silenced him. He hauled Piers upright. The two footmen followed as the youth was dragged back up the stairs.

  ‘What word?’ wondered Philip aloud. But John could think only of those that had issued from Piers's slurring mouth. The dishes he could have learned of from Lucretia alone. She would be sleeping now, he thought. Lying in the bed where she had invited him to sit. His own sleepless brain whirled with thoughts that he could neither resolve nor banish. He walked quietly down the dark passage. As he reached the end a figure eased itself out of the shadows.

  ‘John.’

  Scovell wore a heavy cloak. A single rushlight flickered beside his face. Startled, John recoiled. But the Master Cook smiled.

  ‘Are you ready for the feast?’

  ‘I do not know, Master Scovell. I hope I am.’

  ‘However we prepare, the day will demand more.’ The man eyed John. ‘Ask your demon.’

  John eyed the man, not intrigued but vexed. Every cook carried a feast inside him. His own feast. But the Master Cook's mysteries no longer beguiled him.

  ‘My demon asks who was the magpie.’

  Scovell's gaze faltered.

  ‘He is long gone,’ the man said.

  ‘But who was he?’ John persisted.

  ‘He was called Almery,’ Scovell said at last. ‘Charles Almery. He was a heretic and a thief, so he described himself. And he was my friend.’

  ‘But you argued,’ John pressed the man.

  ‘Yes, we argued.’

  ‘My mother too?’

  The Master Cook shifted the load on his shoulder and began to walk down the passage.

  ‘You will acquit yourself well tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And all the days after, I trust.’

  ‘We all will,’ John answered.

  Scovell paused. But only the man's voice drifted back to John.

  ‘A cook stands apart,’ he said. ‘Even in the feast he is alone.’

  ‘Get up, John. Get up . . .’

  He had barely touched his head to the mattress. Now Mister Bunce was shaking him awake.

  ‘Come, John,’ the man urged in an undertone.

  ‘What is it?’ His head rose blearily. But in the next instant he was wide awake as the man leaned close and whispered.

  ‘It's Master Scovell. He's gone.’

  John stumbled after the Head of Firsts. The door to Scovell's room stood open. Mister Underley, Mister Vanian and Henry Palewick were gathered about the hearth. But the fire was cold. Books were missing from the shelves.

  ‘He may be taking the air,’ offered Underley in a doubtful voice.

  ‘He has gone,’ said Vanian.

  John looked above the hearth. The ladle hung from its hook. He lifted it off, weighing the metal in his hand. This was Scovell's last riddle, he thought. But there was no time to ponder its meaning now.

  ‘I say we tell no one,’ Henry Palewick said. ‘Not till after the feast.’

  The others nodded.

  ‘There's commotion enough up there,’ Henry Palewick said. ‘Sir Philemon arrived last night with a squad of lifeguards. He's been in with Sir William ever since and now everything's late.’

  ‘Makes no difference if Master Scovell's here or not,’ Mister Bunce said stoutly. ‘John's our Master Cook today.’

  He swung the ladle and heard the copper ring out. He listened as his voice called the men and boys to their stations. He watched as the kitchen sprang into action. Simeon and Hesekey handed the capons and ducks to Luke and Colin for placement on the spit. Alf hauled in baskets of greens and pot-herbs from Firsts. Adam filled coffins with hashes of meat while Tam Yallop worked over the chafing dishes. At the hearth, Phelps hauled logs with a pair of long-handled tongs until flames roared up the chimney. Philip darted from bench to bench.

  John stood in the midst of the whirl, Scovell's final words running through his head. A cook stands apart . . . In his mind's eye, the next hours were already arriving, the dishes ascending on the serving men's trays: pies and tarts, birds and fish, loaves, cakes, puddings and pastries. He saw the sea of faces swaying and rolling. At the high table beyond, Lucretia and Piers were seated together.

  ‘John!’ Philip gripped his shoulder. ‘Did you hear me? The lower tables are seated.’

  Across the kitchen, Mister Quiller's serving men jostled at the foot of the stairs. Luke had the first trays ready. Phineas hung in the doorway ready to signal to the bakehouse. In front of the fire, the spiced wine sent its heady fumes through the room. A hundred familiar smells swirled in the kitchen.

  But the aromas in John's nostrils were not of spices or roasting meats. They were of apple and rose water. And his thoughts were not of the feast, or even Scovell, whatever had lured the Master Cook from Buckland. Instead John thought of his pool of crystal jelly lying in Henry Palewick's coldest larder, the love tokens suspended in its depths. A ring. An arrow. A red heart. There was the stair where Piers had slurred his taunt. Raise a cup . . . Since you can't raise her skirts . . . He had no cup, he thought. Only Scovell's ladle. He felt its curve, smooth as the bow of her cheek. He saw her lips parting before his own.

  ‘What is it, John? What's wrong?’ Philip loomed into view.

  ‘Nothing is wrong,’ he told Philip. ‘Nothing.’

  Without another moment's thought, he swung the ladle. The great copper rang out, the clang reverberating and rolling under the vaulted roof As the echoes died, the room fell silent. All around the kitchen, faces turned to John.

  Stand down!

  They were his next words. He had the whole order of service in his head. Without him, there could be no feast. He opened his mouth. But before he could speak, Philip's hand gripped his shoulder.

  ‘John, look.’

  Across the kitchen the cooks, under-cooks, kitchen boys and scullions were murmuring and pointing, turning to look through the arch then pulling off their caps and dropping to their knees. A black-clad man stood at the foot of the stairs. His hawkish nose turned this way and that as his eyes took in the unfamiliar scene. Wearing a heavy cloak and black tunic, Sir William surveyed the vaulted room.

  ‘John,’ hissed Philip, and nudged him.

  ‘Strangers in,’ John managed.

  Watched by the astonished cooks, the Lord of the Vale of Buckland stepped into the kitchen, his gaze reaching into the furthest corners of the room to take in the men and boys. At the great copper, he halted.

  ‘Sir Philemon brings grave news,’ the black-clad man declared. ‘The King has raised his standard. There will be no wedding. We are at war.’

  ". . . the Rabbit's scant juices do baste the lean Meat that lies close upon its Frame.”

  From The Book of John Saturnall: A Dish for those Unfortunates lost among the Dead upon Naseby Field

/>   he Angels in Heaven eat Manna so our Churchmen tell us. The Gods on Olympus quaffed Ambrosia and Nectar. Hades took Kore down to his Palace in Tartarus and set a Feast before her to tempt her but what were its Dishes I do not know. The Dead complain little of their Appetites and so a Cook can only hazard their Hungers.

  But a Soldier will eat what he may find. His Kitchen is the Corner of a Field and his safest Bed is a Thicket of Brambles. Gather therefore what you may from the Hedgerows and snare the Same in the Woods, and if Fortune smiles so broadly upon you that you do take a fat Rabbit, then follow these Instructions which an old Man upon the Road vouchsafed me many Years ago.

  First skin the Beast and draw it then spit it upon a Hazel Twig that, twisting and turning in the Heat of the Fire according to that Wood's miraculous character, the Rabbit's scant Juices do baste the lean Meat that lies close upon its Frame. Take Sprigs of Rosemary too if you will and stitch these beneath the Flesh to sweeten it with the Oils of the Herb. When a Dagger pressed into the fat Part of the Thigh brings Juices running clear, then the Meat will be cooked . . .

  THE SMOKE BILLOWED UP in a thick white trunk, its heavy crown spreading then toppling to engulf those below. Through streaming eyes, John saw ghostly figures stumbling blindly through the acrid cloud, coughing and choking as they breathed in the fumes. The clang of iron on iron beat against his ears. Suddenly a body reared before him. A pole of black iron loomed, its end spiked and hooked. As John scrambled aside, the metal thudded down and a fountain of sparks crackled into the air. An angry voice rose above the noise.

  ‘Who was it?’ demanded Philip. ‘What pudding-head put green wood on the fire?’

  The latest encampment of the Buckland Kitchen was a roofless barn on a rise overlooking the valley below. Spread out over the fields, the troops of the King's army gathered around their fires. The smells of woodsmoke and latrines drifted up the shallow slope. Rubbing his watering eyes, John watched Philip hook the smoking branch with his iron, pull it out of the blaze and drag it crackling over the mud floor. Adam Lockyer held the door open, his face streaked with soot and dirt.