Each part of the kitchen had its own sergeant-at-arms, the Specialists. The apprentices served time under each Specialist, learning the craft from the bottom up, as it were, before being selected for a specialist trade, such as baking, rotisserie or butchery. The dread of each apprentice was that he would not be selected by a Specialist. Unselected apprentices, termed ‘roundsmen’, were constantly moving from station to station and never earned as much as a specialized cook.
Even as a newcomer, Will could tell the first-year ’prentices. Like him, they wore a harried look and ran fast. They wore white aprons. Once selected for specialist cooking their aprons would be coloured: blue for baking, red for butchery, black for rotisserie, green for vegetables. Roundsmen wore stripes.
The place was busy from before sun-up to late evening. Between one and three in the morning were the only times of quiet. Sometimes, when Will couldn’t sleep, he would visit the empty, quiet space. There was something soothing about the rows of copper pots and the smell of yesterday’s food that hung in the air like a memory. But once the waking gong rang, and the morning apprentices staggered from their bunks, the kitchen was a place of frantic activity; the thud of chopping mingled with calls from the cooks to ‘hurry, hurry’. In the kitchen, it seemed, there was never enough time.
Until the date of Will’s ’prenticing, Master Vale had manufactured excuses to visit the farm.
‘Here, mistress,’ he said to Aunt Agnes, tipping a couple of loaves into her arms. ‘They’re a mite burnt, but I thought, as you’ve got the lad to feed, you could find a use for it.’
Once, Jimmy trotted over on the donkey with a bag of grain. ‘Da’s compliments, master,’ he said to Uncle Wavern, ‘we’ve got weevils. Could you use it for your chickens?’
What with the letter to impress the visitors, the increase in food and the knowledge that her troublesome sister’s son would soon be off her hands, Aunt Agnes was kinder to Will. The winter, therefore, was better than Will had hoped.
The ’prenticing started in spring. Aunt Agnes was all for sending Will alone to the Castle, until Master Vale interfered, arriving at the farm with a horse and cart.
‘I’ve got to take a delivery of flour from the Castle, mistress. It’s no difficulty to bring the lad with me.’
Aunt Agnes pressed her lips together, but said nothing and passed Will a small bundle.
‘Is that all your things?’ said the baker.
‘Aye,’ said Will, putting it into the cart.
‘When my ’prentices start, they normally come with a change of raiment, some food. And coin. You got coin, boy?’
Will shook his head. He didn’t care to tell Aunt Agnes of the gold coins, tucked securely into his shoes.
‘Well, it will look mighty odd,’ said the baker. ‘But it’s up to your aunt and uncle, I suppose. Daresay they don’t care much for folks’ opinions, anyways.’
Aunt Agnes’s cheeks went a trifle pink. ‘He’s just an orphan. Where would he get coin from?’
‘Same place his cousins did, I guess. I’ve heard it muttered at the Castle — how they’d never seen two boys set up as well as Aled and Whithern.’
‘They say that? At the Castle?’ Aunt Agnes looked like she might smile. ‘Well, I never! Let me see what I can find, Master Vale. It’s been a hard winter and all, but maybe there’s a trifle set aside somewhere.’
She vanished into the house.
‘That woman,’ said Master Vale, spitting, ‘is as tight as my two front teeth. Let’s see if we can prise anything from her.’
‘Master, I don’t need money,’ said Will.
‘’Course you do, lad.’ The baker winked. ‘Might be a pretty lass at the Castle. You never know.’
Aunt Agnes returned with two coins, one gold, one silver. Will inspected them with interest. The gold coin was smaller than the one provided by the baker. The beaked-nose man was still there, but on the reverse there seemed to be a barrel, with flames coming from it. On the silver was a scowling, multi-armed monster.
The baker touched his hat. ‘Mighty generous of you, mistress. Now, boy, you ready?’
Will arrived at the Castle richer than he’d ever been in his life.
Will seldom saw Whithern. Rumour had it Prince Owein was courting a baron’s daughter in the north. Will worried about running into Aled until a laundry maid told him that a week after Will’s arrival, Aled had been stood down for good — sent back home in disgrace because he’d drawn a sword on Sergeant Ryngell. The sergeant hadn’t taken it well; in a trice he’d disarmed Aled, lopping off Aled’s thumb in the process.
‘Turned white as a ghost, Aled did,’ said the laundry maid. ‘Started screaming that the sergeant had killed him. Your cousin, is he? Well, he’s a great brute, if you don’t mind me saying. Me and the other lasses are right glad he’s gone.’
‘So am I,’ said Will, with feeling.
The days were full: spit-turning, scouring, kneading, chopping. At the Castle, Will worked hard, but was seldom hit. And being in a kitchen, food was plentiful. The other ’prentices were pleasant enough. Places at the Castle were highly sought after, so the Seneschal took only lads and lasses who would work hard and willingly.
Every seven-day, Will had a half-day to himself and a small silver coin to thank him for his labour. All in all, the Castle was better than the farm.
Will turned fourteen that autumn. Already he’d been near on eighteen months in the Kingdom. He might not be happy here, but he wasn’t sad all the time, either. How could he be? He was learning a trade, meeting new folk — there was always something to see, someplace new to explore. His only concern was the selection; he didn’t want to spend his time as a roundsman. He wanted to learn a craft. He wanted to be a baker.
‘You’ve done well, boy,’ said the Head Cook, appearing unexpectedly at Will’s shoulder. He started, and nearly put a knife through his finger. ‘Master Vale said we’d find you good material, and we have.’ She pressed a scrap of parchment into his hand. ‘Congratulations, son.’
The other ’prentices crowded around him as he opened the packet, slowly. On it was a picture: a loaf of bread.
‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’ Cook asked.
‘Aye, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’ Will swallowed. Tears prickled his eyes. How proud his da would be.
‘Master Jabbers has a ’prentice leaving. Stupid lad. He thinks he knows it all — wants to set up his own bakery, he says. Once he’s gone, you’ll be stepping up to the bakery bench. Congratulations.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. Ma’am?’
‘Son?’
‘I’ll be needing a new apron, won’t I? Do I get them from you?’
The other apprentices sniggered. Cook shook her head. ‘Most ’prentices write to their parents.’
‘Ma’am, I have no parents.’ And, thought Will, I’m not asking Aunt for nothing. Maybe I could buy one? I wonder how much an apron is.
Cook’s face softened slightly. ‘Ah. I’m sorry. You could talk to a seamstress, I suppose. Or …’ she paused. ‘No. The very thing. Come see me in my office at the end of your duty.’
Will swallowed. The office was a place of doom, a place where the worst apprentices went and never returned. Legend had it they were melted into pies or candles. Most probably, they were sent home in disgrace. Legend, though, was more entertaining than a boring fact of dismissal.
Will knocked on the office door.
‘Ah, Will. Come in.’ Grunting, the Head Cook heaved herself from her chair. ‘I have an idea. Now, I need some pots repaired and you need an apron. So here’s the plan. After the Festival you can take my pots down to the tinkers at the Crossing. I’ll pay you for your trouble with a new apron. What say you?’
‘Well, ma’am,’ said Will. ‘Thank you. But you don’t need to pay me. I’m your apprentice. I’d go anyway.’
The big woman shook her head. ‘You don’t understand, Will. It’s the Crossing. That’s Outside. ’Prentices can refuse to
go Outside.’
‘We can?’
‘Of course.’ The woman seemed surprised. ‘You’re an apprentice, not a slave. I thought, though, being from Outside as you are, you probably won’t mind going to the Crossing. I can ask a senior to go, if you have doubts.’
Will vaguely remembered the Crossing; there had been willows and long-grassed clearings. It was normally a place of trade, the courier had said, but this year, what with the plague and all, there had been no-one there. Save Will, of course, and the courier. And the Ferryman, making his lonely way across the strait.
‘I’ll need a token,’ said Will, remembering the little seed-like thing that Aunt Agnes had sent him.
‘You’ll go, then?’ said Cook.
‘Aye.’
‘Good.’ She looked at Will. ‘You’ll be a good baker. I can always tell. There’s something about a steady hand and a steady eye. Now, step along to the Pot Master. He’ll give you the goods for repair and the money for the business. And you’ll need a transport. So after you’ve seen the Pot Master, best go across to the stables and arrange for a horse for the week following Festival.’
‘Please, ma’am,’ said Will, ‘can I have a donkey? I don’t really like horses.’
Cook smiled. ‘Will, a donkey will be fine.’
8
Forest Wanderer
Sandwiched between the outer ramparts and the walls of the keep, the pleasure wood had been planted many years ago by a long-dead queen. I visited it often. It wasn’t large; I could walk across it in twenty minutes and run through it in ten, if a governess didn’t stop me. Sometimes I stood inside it with my eyes closed, listening to the sounds, smelling the damp soil. But I always knew it wasn’t a real forest.
When I clambered out of the collier’s cart and into the real forest, I was expecting something wonderful, almost mystical. But it wasn’t like a fairy story at all. It was noisy and far more interesting. Sparrows, chattering above, sounded like chambermaids gossiping. A squirrel pattered along a tree branch. I walked towards a faint, rhythmical tapping. There, on an oak trunk, a bird tapped away, his beak a blur. I stepped on a twig and he stopped, turning his head as if startled. A woodpecker!
It’s always exciting to see something for the first time, something you’ve read about, although it’s never quite the same as what you’d imagined, for I’d thought a woodpecker would be a great giant of a bird, not this tiny, fairy-like creature.
I followed sunlight into a clearing. A red-leaved beech tree stood at one end. Its bark was grey as charcoal. Seated on the roots was a little girl.
‘You took your time,’ she said.
She wore only a plain white shift and a thin gold necklace. Her feet were bare. There was something odd about her.
‘Who are you?’
‘Don’t you know? I helped you get here.’ As she brushed back her hair I realized the source of this strangeness: I could see through her.
I blinked. ‘Are you a ghost?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m your fairy godmother, child.’
‘You look like a ghost.’
‘That’s because I’m not really here,’ she said. ‘Have you played shadow games — where your hand makes a shape, like a dog or a butterfly, in front of a candle? And the shadow you create moves?’
I nodded.
‘This body is a shadow; my mind is the candle.’
I shook my head. This made no sense. Was I dreaming? I didn’t feel as though I was asleep. I pinched my leg and it hurt just as it was supposed to. Who was this person? I did have a godmother, my father’s sister, but she’d gone away when young so I’d never met her.
‘I mean you no harm. If it makes you feel better, I helped you get here.’
‘You did? How?’
‘Who brought the collier, distracted the maids? And why do you think the cartwheel broke?’
I thought I’d helped myself. ‘Thank you, I guess.’
‘I’ve tried to tell Leo that you need your freedom, but he won’t listen.’
Leo was my father. Who was this girl, who called my father by his nickname? ‘Who are you?’
‘I told you. I’m your godmother.’
‘You can’t be. You’re too young.’
The girl looked down at herself. ‘My real body does look different to this.’ She stood up, brushed transparent hands on a transparent gown. ‘I brought you here to show you the forest.’
I shrugged. It was nice to have a companion roughly my own age, whoever she was, even if she was transparent.
Despite her lack of solidity, the girl was an excellent companion. She showed me how to hunt for quails’ eggs and nuts and taught me how to start a fire. Insubstantial as she was, she was not able to demonstrate, but she told me what to do.
‘First you make a tiny bed of dry mosses and bark chips. You need larger pieces too, for when the fire grows.’
‘Why do I need to do this? Can’t I just use a tinder box?’
‘And what if there’s no tinder box to hand, hmm?’ she said. ‘How will you keep yourself alive in the wild?’
I wasn’t going to live here — I had planned to go home at the end of the day. But she was persistent, pointing at two small grey rocks, one smooth and slippery, the other heavy and coarse.
‘Bang them together,’ she said.
Feeling stupid, I obeyed and jumped at the flash. ‘Hey!’
‘That spark,’ she said quietly, ‘is the birth of a fire.’
‘I got a spark!’
‘Keep going! Give it a reason to grow.’
I blew on the ember, nestled in its bed of moss and dry grass. I was breathless when finally it grew into life; the books had never said how hard it was to make a fire.
‘Well done!’ she said.
‘I can make fire.’ Amazing. With fire, I could survive. I could live in this forest.
‘You can’t eat fire, though. Come. I’ll show you something.’
Catching a trout in my hands proved hard work, involving much patience and splashing. But when finally I’d worked my fingers into the gill slits, lifting the trout out of the water in one great fountain of water, the thrill was immense.
‘And now,’ she said, ‘you have food.’
I stared at the silver fish that flapped weakly on the riverbank. ‘I’m not that hungry.’
‘Really?’
I swallowed. I was starving. ‘I can’t eat it like that.’
‘Don’t whine,’ she said. ‘We’ll bake it in the fire.’
Even though the skin of the fish was charred and I burnt my fingers on its flesh, it tasted delicious.
‘Do you want some?’ I asked her.
‘I’m not solid enough for food. But thank you for the offer.’ She smiled.
‘What’s so funny?’
She shook her head. ‘Look at you — coal in your hair, greasy fingers, your hose are wet. Yet you look as though you’re having the best time in the world.’
I smiled, my mouth so full that little bits of fish squeezed out between my teeth. ‘But I am. I’m on holiday.’
We sat together, staring into the fire. The afternoon sun was warm on my face, so I moved into the shade of the tree and lay on my back, watching the red leaves dance against the clouds.
‘Sleep well, Dana,’ I thought I heard her say. ‘And don’t worry, child. Right now, you are safe.’
My eyes closed. The deep grass was soft and smelt of summer.
When I woke there was no sign of the flickering girl. The wood was in shadow. My mouth felt thick, as though I’d swallowed dirt. The grass was damp with dew and the light under the trees was turning evening grey. Small crackles and rustlings in the undergrowth suggested larger animals might soon be about. I was cold, so cold. Shivering, I rubbed my arms and shoulders. So did I have a fairy godmother or not? Had she been a dream?
Foolishly, I’d not even thought of taking note of where I was, or which direction I faced. All the paths through the bracken passed through one clearing af
ter another, seemingly crossing upon one another, circling back. No matter which muddy track I took, it always led back to the same clearing, the same beech tree. How could I have been so stupid? I should have put some of the white stones from the road into my pockets, so I could follow a neat white-pebbled trail back home, as they did in stories. I needed to hurry. It was nearly evensong; at evensong the bridge was drawn.
The treetops were still sunlit. Their thick trunks looked like roads that climbed through the leaves, up to the sky. If only I could climb — I could get above the wretched forest. Then I’d be able to see the Castle and the road. I’d be able to see how to get home. All I needed was to get myself into that tree. But the lowest branches were too high for me to climb to. Maybe if I jumped? I put my hand on the rough bark. Could I pull myself up?
Time twisted. The everyday world blurred. Leaping, I climbed. Higher, higher. Grey bark sped by, green leaves brushed my face. Empty air, wind in my hair. Dizzy, I closed my eyes. A crow cried, harsh and long. Like a squirrel, I sat at the top of the tree, looking out at the Castle on its craggy mound. Shakily, I stared at the green-branched world.
And there, far below, a red-haired girl stood looking up at a grey-barked tree.
I had two sets of eyes; my mind in the treetop, my body below. Two views, two perspectives.
What was this? I felt sudden sickness and clung to the tree. Maybe I was still in a dream. Perhaps I’d not woken after all; perhaps I was still asleep. At least I knew where the road was. Keeping my real eyes closed, directing my feet from my mind-in-the-tree, I walked my body slowly towards the road.
It felt like purposeful daydreaming. Or sleep walking. If my concentration wavered I flicked from one point of view to another. If my body could keep its thoughts quiet, my mind-in-the-tree did the directing, put my body on the right path. I stumbled through brambles and mud, but it didn’t hurt now, because my mind couldn’t feel it.
How was this possible?
I stumbled, falling into a ditch. It was dry, and smelt of wet leaves. Startled, I lost concentration.
Thwack! My mind-in-the-tree slammed into my ground-based body. I scrambled at leaves and splinters of stone, lost my bearings for a time as the world spun above me. Finally, though, everything rightened. Dazed, I scrambled out.
A Necklace of Souls Page 6
