by Rue Allyn
“With reason, sire.”
“I see.”
Haven wondered if the king’s noncommittal comment was cause for worry.
But Edward’s next words concerned him more. “I had reason to believe that a mine existed here. That is why I insisted you take charge of Two Hills Keep.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“’Twas only a rumor, passed on to me by the man who said that Daffydd would attack this place.”
“It seems your source was reliable.”
“Aye, he shall be properly rewarded, as shall you both.” Edward included Pwyll in his glance.
Haven waited.
“Haven, you have need of a permanent position and lands. This keep and the title Earl of Twynn are yours and your family’s from this day forth with two conditions. First, that you pay the crown half of all the silver mined here.”
“The crown needs more than half, liege.”
“Think you so? You must take the cost of mining and smelting the ore from the sale of the silver after you give the crown its share. What say you now?”
Haven acquiesced. “You are just as always.”
“I wouldn’t say always. But I thank you for your faith in me. And that is my second condition.”
“That I remain faithful?”
“Not just you. So long as the de Sessions family remains perfect in troth to the king of England, they shall hold these lands.”
“And I, my liege?” Pwyll asked.
Haven forestalled Edward’s answer. “Sire, I see workers massing at the doors, waiting for us to finish.”
“Let them come in. We can conclude our business while you show me the improvements Pwyll has made. Did I mention that I brought the first of the English families with me?”
“Nay, liege. You did not.” ’Tis too soon, Haven thought, we are not yet ready.
Chaos reigned in the kitchen. From the corner where she attempted to quell a battle between Rene and one Goody Brown, Englishwoman, Gennie watched disaster unfold.
At the huge fireplace a couple of young boys turned several spits of meat and fowl. A number of Welshwomen stood around a large table kneading dough, filling tarts and beating other mysterious concoctions in bowls. Some young girls sat by the only door plucking and cleaning fowl, effectively blocking entrance to Goody’s supporters and anyone else who felt a need to be in the kitchen. A man with a wicked-looking knife sliced loaves of bread into trenchers. The scooped-out middles of each loaf went into a copper-clad kettle used for making puddings and other sweets. Next to him, four more girls peeled and pared fruits of all varieties.
Gennie shook her head. If they had to feed the king and his minions for many days, starvation would be a certainty this winter. The few supplies they had would be gone in less than a week.
The resourceful Welsh had produced a small treasure of vegetables and fruit when they realized the king did not mean to eject them immediately. The English families, who had come with the king to populate Two Hills Keep, made their contribution too. That was what started the battle between Rene and Mistress Goody Brown.
While more than willing to accept the foods given by the English, the usually affable Rene was completely unwilling to allow any of the English into the kitchen.
“I will have no talentless beginners ruin the meal I prepare for le rol.”
At which point, Mistress Brown countered, “I been kneading bread and roasting quail since before your mother tupped the butcher.”
This insult was not to be born. Rene dipped his ladle into the sauce he had been stirring to cool and flung the liquid at Goody.
Goody gasped and returned fire with a fist full of dough grabbed off the nearby table.
It might have stopped there, but in drawing back her arm, Mistress Brown clipped the head of a woman who was whipping eggs to a froth. The bowl slipped from the woman’s hands and tipped, spilling the bubbly yellow liquid across the table and into every item being prepared there.
The woman tried in vain to capture the bowl, thus losing her balance. She fell backward, knocking the two boys away from the fire and the spits off their handles. Sparks flew, and people jumped every which way. Platters skidded. More liquids spilled. Screeches and yelps rolled in the air.
Suddenly all was still, save the stray feathers that floated like huge dust motes in the heated air. Standing in the doorway was the very friar who had heard Gennie’s confession and instructed her to wear the hair shirt. When he turned his blazing look on her, Gennie shivered.
“I see your sins have come back to roost, madame. You must have lacked dedication in your penance.”
How could he know? Gennie wondered.
“Hear now, you speak proper to milady.” This from Goody Brown, who eyed the begging priest with disgust. Sauce dripped from every appendage, and she looked like nothing so much as a huge, underdone apple dumpling.
“I will have respect for Lady Genvieve in my kitchen.” Rene echoed the Englishwoman’s sentiments, his dislike of friars being well known to Gennie and evidently superior to his mistrust of Goody Brown.
From the angry flush on the friar’s face, Gennie expected a rage of sermonizing. Contrary to expectation, the friar bowed to Rene and Goody Brown and said in dulcet tones, “I apologize. I meant no offense.”
“And so you should,” huffed Goody.
Rene merely sniffed.
The friar made an attempt at a conciliatory smile. The rather nauseating result fascinated Gennie.
“Come, children,” the holy man continued. “Let us put past mishaps aside and set to rights the bounty God has given us. My brothers and I will help.”
“Non.”
“Nay.”
But the protests of Rene and Goody alike went unheeded. For the friar, and six more like him, waded through a fallen bucket of feathers and began to help restore order.
Gennie watched horrified as the friars filched as much as they put to rights. In the flurry of activity that followed the priestly entrance into the kitchen, it was difficult to keep track of who put what where.
So Gennie resigned herself to the friars’ questionable assistance. She cautioned Rene not to object. “Some missing food is a small price to pay, and do we object, they will but remain longer and take more.”
Gennie began to think of their quick-fingered presence as a blessing, since the friars also achieved the unintended result of accord between Rene and Goody Brown.
“Milady,” Goody whispered, when the friars lingered overlong, “that one is about to lift the quail from the king’s platter. Else you find some way to make them leave, the king himself will go hungry this day.”
Gennie cast a glance at the shadows outside the kitchen door. “Be at ease, Mistress Brown. The chapel bell will ring evening prayers soon. Those sticky-fingered crows will have to leave then.”
True to her word, the bells rang out moments later, and like a flock of ravens set upon by hounds, the friars left.
Gennie and her cook surveyed the remaining damage. “Will you be able to feed us tonight, Rene.”
“Oui, milady. It will not be easy, though.”
“We shall pull through, milady. Just you wait and see.” Goody Brown dabbed away the remnants of the sauce from her face.
Rene hitched his apron. “Go you, Lady Genvieve. Mistress Brown and I have much work to do.”
Assured that peace, if not neatness, would now rule in the kitchen, Gennie took herself off to find her husband. Only he could help her solve her latest problem.
Chapter Twenty-Six
With Gennie beside him, Haven sat at the king’s right above the salt and surveyed the great hall with satisfaction. He knew how slim the resources were with which his wife had to work. He also knew that the English families had not adjusted well to the presence of the Welsh.
Yet Gennie accomplished the impossible. The walls were bare, but all evidence of construction was gone. Sturdy tables and benches had appeared to provide seating for both Edward’s hous
ehold and their own. Servants brought wine and ale in abundance. Only one thing was missing: the food.
A short time ago, Gennie had come to him with a tale of a disaster in the kitchen. She begged that he find some way to delay the meal. Haven stood, and the room grew quiet. He hoped that his solution would satisfy all.
“Sire, respected guests. Our cook has prepared a very special repast tonight. However, to whet your appetites, we have arranged a wrestling match. When Cyril Glamorgan, one of my Welsh bowmen, questioned the fighting abilities of Englishmen in general, my squire sought the privilege of defending English honor. I granted my permission, as long as they delayed their contest until now, when all could witness the truth or falseness of Glamorgan’s claim that Englishmen could not defeat an enemy without Welsh arrows to clear the way first.”
At this announcement, the English in the hall rose up and hurled insults at the Welsh, who soon returned the discourtesy. Haven bellowed for silence. When both parties were again seated, he called the combatants into the room. “So that all may understand the victory conditions: These two men will fight until one or the other remains pinned at the shoulders for a count of five unless one of them should first cry mercy. Watley, Cyril, do either of you wish to concede victory to your opponent now?”
“Nay,” the men chorused.
“Very well, then. Let the match begin.”
Haven sat.
Edward leaned over to him. “Would you care to place a wager, Sir Haven?”
“Aye, but I cannot bet against my own squire.”
“Too bad; as an Englishman, I can hardly bet on the Welsh.”
“I am neither Welsh nor English, sire. If my husband will permit, I will bet on Cyril against Watley.”
A cheer arose as Watley retreated before Cyril’s first rush.
“Are you certain you wish to do this, wife?”
“’Twill be easy money, Haven. Look how much larger Cyril is than Watley.”
“’Tis not always size that decides a contest, Gennie.”
“I understand this.”
Groans and cheers mixed together. Watley had ducked under the Welshman’s longer reach. The heavy Welshman could not check in time and crashed through the scattering crowd into the wall.
“As you will, then.”
Cyril shook himself and turned, rushing Watley, who once again retreated before the huge man.
“Sire what terms do you offer?”
Edward’s eyes gleamed. “Would a groat be too much, milady?”
“Seems a paltry sum to me.”
“Ah, but what if a promise to be named in the future comes with the groat?”
Cyril had backed Watley to the opposite wall.
“A king’s promise and a groat too. ’Tis a splendid wager. I agree. Haven, you will stand witness to the terms.”
“Aye.”
With a nod, Gennie joined in the shouting for Cyril to crush the squire. The king voiced equally loud encouragement to Watley. Indeed, had Watley been slower, Cyril would certainly have triumphed. But Haven had to smile when he saw Watley once again duck and Cyril once again dust the wall with his face.
The contest took some time, but that Cyril’s size outmatched his brains soon became apparent. Time after time, Watley would lure the fellow to embrace the walls. The damage Cyril sustained from close and repeated impact with stone was greater than any that Watley could have delivered on his own.
Eventually, the Welshman defeated himself, crashing to the ground. Winded from the prolonged chase, Watley sat himself on Cyril’s chest. Haven counted five and declared Watley the victor.
“Have you your groat ready, milady?” asked Edward.
“I can get it, sire.”
“Do so. I would reward yon squire. Haven, call him forward.”
Gennie went to the solar to get a groat from a pouch kept in one of the chests. While his wife left on that errand, Haven motioned Watley to come to the head table.
Watley climbed the dais, then knelt. “How may I be of service?”
“Rise, good Watley,” said Edward.
Watley stood. “Sire.”
The king continued. “I would reward your victory with the sum of two groats wagered on the outcome of your contest. To that I add my hearty thanks for your courage. I also ask that you consider leaving Sir Haven’s service for service in my household. If Sir Haven will free you from your oath to him.”
Watley’s mouth gaped.
Haven smiled.
The king laughed and lifted his cup from the table.
“But I am not yet a knight.”
“That can be remedied,” Haven said dryly.
Edward chuckled and slapped his arm around Watley’s shoulders. “Here, lad, have a drink while you think it over.”
Watley tipped the kings cup to his lips and drank deeply He placed the empty cup on the table before him. “’Tis little enough to think about, sire. As long as Haven is willing to let me go.”
“I will not hold you back. In fact, had the king not suggested it, I would have petitioned him to give you a place in his household.”
“You are all that is kind, sir.”
“Nonsense. If you are determined to have Rebecca Dreyford, you must first earn lands. And there is no better opportunity for that than in service with our liege.”
“Do…does this mean you approve our marriage?” Watley blinked and rubbed a hand across his eyes.
“I approve your betrothal as long as you gain lands and Rebecca spends the years until your marriage in a convent, learning humility and thoughtfulness.”
The squire’s face flushed. “With your permission, Sir Haven, sire, I shall go and tell her.”
The king nodded.
“Get you gone, pup,” Haven growled. He watched the young man stumble the length of the great hall.
“Love seems to have done what Cyril could not,” Edward remarked.
“Aye,” Haven agreed, watching his squire’s unsteady gait.
Watley had just reached Rebecca’s side when he doubled over.
“Watley?” Rebecca shrieked.
Haven leapt from the dais. Behind him Edward roared for silence.
Haven reached his stricken squire three strides before the king. “What’s wrong?”
“Something tears at my belly,” Watley gritted out. “And my sight dims.”
Haven frowned and helped Watley to a bench. “Here, lad, lie down.”
Watley moaned. “I am going to be sick.”
Haven shifted the squire’s head away from the watching crowd. Watley heaved, but nothing came up.
“Sir, where is your healer?’ The king’s voice came over Haven’s shoulder.
“You there.” Haven grabbed a nearby Welshman. “Find Gwyneth.”
The man looked at him in puzzlement.
“Gwyneth. Gwyneth,” Haven shouted. “Find Gwyneth.”
“Aye, Gwyneth.” The man nodded.
Gennie returned at that moment. “Haven, what has happened to… Bon Dieu, Watley.”
“Owain, Soames, to me,” Haven shouted again. The men came at the run.
“Clear those people out of this room.” He swept his arm toward the onlookers. “But keep them together within the bailey.”
“Aye, sir.”
The room emptied, and Watley continued to clutch his belly.
Soames and Owain returned.
The squire curled his body and moaned about stabbing pains in his stomach.
Before Gwyneth arrived he had begun to tremble. His face began to redden. Saliva dripped from his mouth, and he struggled to breathe.
When the old woman approached, Haven pulled Gennie aside, holding her by the arm.
Gwyneth examined Watley, muttering in Welsh. She paused, then nodded and continued babbling over the squire.
“Owain, what says she?” Haven ordered.
“Hot as hare. Blind as a bat. Dry as bone. But not yet red as beet. Nor mad as hen,” the sergeant-at-arms translated.
&nb
sp; “What witchery is this? Remove that crone.” Edward’s order nearly drowned the last of Owain’s translation.
“’Tis nightshade,” Owain repeated Gwyneth’s words In English.
The fearsome word whispered off the stones in the great hall.
“Nay,” came Haven’s protest. “By your leave, sire, this woman saved my life. Let her by to save my squire.”
“Nightshade? How…?” Haven heard Gennie choke on the words.
“Poison?” The king cut her off.
“How could that be?” Haven completed Gennie’s thought. “He was fine during the wrestling.”
“Bring a full bucket of vinegar and a ladle,” Owain translated Gwyneth’s orders.
“Certainment, Gwyneth.” Gennie started to leave, but Haven held her in place.
“Soames, you go,” Haven ordered.
“Aye, sir.”
Haven’s second-in-command returned with the requested bucket.
Gwyneth muttered and Owain interpreted. “Hold him down.”
Soames and Haven bent to that task.
The king moved into place behind Gennie.
Gwyneth pinched Watley’s nose. When the squire opened his mouth for breath, she poured a ladleful of vinegar into his mouth and let go of his nose. He was forced to swallow the vile stuff or suffocate.
Gwyneth repeated the procedure as soon as he swallowed the first dose. She stopped whenever Watley’s stomach would rebel and cast up the vinegar it had just received. Then the pinching and ladling would begin again.
A second bucket of vinegar was brought. Gwyneth did not cease her treatment of Watley until his stomach no longer rejected the vinegar. Even then, she would force a portion down his throat if he started trembling or complained of stomach pains.
When he had gone for some time without showing symptoms of the poison, Gwyneth put down her ladle. She spoke to Soames. “She wants us to move him to his bed,” said Owain.
“Soames,” Haven spoke before the man did Gwyneth’s bidding. “Send a few men back in, Lindel and Sutherland I think.”
“Aye, Sir Haven.”
Now that the crisis was past, Haven turned to the king, still standing behind Gennie. “I know what you must be thinking, sire.”
