Chapter Seven
A Perpetual Fair
There were dramas aplenty at the Castle, ranging from small to large. Sometimes, Will felt as though he was living in a perpetual fair.
Today, a cook was scolding a kitchen maid for leaving milk to sour. “Master, ’twasn’t me. ’Twasn’t me,” sobbed the girl.
The cook was restrained by the butcher, his wooden ladle removed. The maid escaped under a bench. A chambermaid sidled in through a side door and asked to speak to the pastry cook. Prince Alden wanted extra pastries with his breakfast.
“I can send bread, also, if the Prince is hungry,” said the pastry cook.
“You don’t understand,” whispered the chambermaid. “It’s not for him.”
“Not for him? Then who is it for?”
“Prince Alden has a visitor,” whispered the red-faced maid.
“Prince Alden has a visitor? In his bedchamber?” The pastry cook’s loud voice echoed through the kitchen. All activity stopped.
The cook laughed, broke small pastries into two, to form the shape of a heart, and poured chocolate in the middle. A broken, blackened heart.
“Here,” he said loudly. “Take this to the Prince’s visitor.” The kitchen erupted into laughter.
There were people aplenty at the Castle too, each with roles and stations both unfamiliar and bizarre. The guardsmen, Will could understand. So, too, the farrier, and the farm staff who cared for the cattle and sheep of the Castle. But what of the falconers, the huntsmen, the armory staff? All strange occupations, with their own rules and traditions. When he heard the men of the falconry discussing jesses and grommets, hoods and bells, it felt as though he was listening to a different language.
To Will, used to the clamor and chatter of a village, it all felt strangely familiar and yet very different. The kitchens themselves were immense. A vast stone building that protruded from the walls of the Castle, the kitchens were on the opposite side of the keep to the royal chambers. This was deliberate, said the cooks, as it kept the risk of fire spreading, but very inconvenient; apprentices had to be fast on their feet when serving at state banquets.
Three great fireplaces on the eastern walls, each large enough to roast an ox, were kept lit throughout the day. Tables and benches, arrayed at regular intervals, were scrubbed white at evening. Each table had its own purpose: one for preparing the bread, another for vegetables. One, marble-topped, was used for sweet pastries.
A coal-fired burner on the north wall was used for boiling the cauldrons and pans and, wonder of wonders, water was piped through the wall into the stone sinks. Will never tired of standing and turning the metal tap. How amazing to have water when you wanted it, instead of laboring at a pump or pulling buckets from a well!
The kitchens were home to near on fifty staff; a battalion of people ruled by the Head Cook, a portly woman with a wispy chin and a strict sense of discipline. Her word was law, and most of the staff lived in fear of her temper. Her captains were the Senior Cooks. She deferred to them in the matter of food crafting, but still roared at them if they wasted ingredients or left food to spoil.
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 colored: 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’s mouth looked like to 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?”
So Will arrived at the Castle richer than he’d ever been in his life.
* * *
Will seldom saw Whithern. Rumor 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 labor. 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 apprentices crowded around him as he opened the packet, slowly. On it was a picture: a loaf of bread.
“Well? It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” the 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. The 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?
The 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 boring facts about 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 my 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 the 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.”
The Cook smiled. “Will, a donkey will be fine.”
Chapter Eight
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 toward 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 gray 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 smiled. 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, s
he 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 gray 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.”
The SoulNecklace Stories Page 6
