A Tale of Two Castles (11 page)

Chapter Eighteen

I
n the kitchen, Master Jak, chief third assistant cook, whom I'd awakened the night before, swore at me for my late arrival, then grinned evilly. “Onions,
Eh
lodie. By thunder, onions.” He led me to the long kitchen worktable.

I scanned the room for Master Thiel, but he wasn't there.

“Sit.”

I climbed onto a stool next to a sack of onions that rose to my elbow. Master Jak supplied me with a chopping knife, a peelings pail, and a big bowl for the chopped onions. He said a scullery maid would take away the bowl when it was filled and bring it back empty.

“His Lordship likes onions in his soup and onions in his stew,” Master Jak said, “and he is devoted to his onion pie. Don't stop until they're all chopped. By thunder, no weeping into them,
Eh
lodie.”

I began. Soon tears were falling into my lap, and yes, into the onions. Weeping made me think of mansioning. A true mansioner won't use an onion to make her cry. I wondered if a true mansioner could conjure happiness and not cry in spite of a mountain of onions. I couldn't.

Hoping the owner wouldn't mind, I took the peppermint out of its pouch and put a leaf on my tongue. The mint helped against the onions, but not much.

The onions and I were stationed at the menial end of the table, far from the actual cooking. At the important end, yards and yards away, a baker kneaded dough, her arms floury up to the elbows. Next to her, another baker rolled out pastry. A scullery maid complained that her mortar and pestle were missing, and how could she pound the garlic and thyme without them? Master Jak told her to find a bowl and a spoon and cease griping.

At his own table, the butcher cut apart a lamb. Blood ran down grooves in the table to a pail on the floor. A small spotted dog—not Nesspa—sat at the butcher's feet, staring ardently upward.

Master Jak and three others stood at the largest of three fireplaces, tending whatever was cooking. I wondered if Master Jak's companions were the chief second assistant cook and the chief first assistant cook and the exalted cook.

I considered whether Nesspa could be stowed here somewhere. The lower half of the enormous cupboard between the two lesser fireplaces was big enough to hold a sheep. As if a fairy was granting wishes, a kitchen boy opened the double doors to get a frying pan, and I glimpsed shelves crammed with pots and pans. I saw no other likely place to hide a dog.

Sharing my end of the table, a boy—my age more or less, cap strings untied, narrow face, small brown eyes—peeled cucumbers.

He winked at me. “I'm in your debt, young mistress, for taking the onions.”

I was not partial to winkers, but I winked back. “I'm new, young master. I never saw the inside of a castle before today.”

Another wink from him. “A castle's big so a count or a king can bring his friends in and keep his enemies' armies out.”

“How clever.” I nodded encouragingly. Tell me something that will lead me to Nesspa or that I can tell Masteress Meenore.

“Thick walls, soldiers within, enough food to last a month. If we die, the rats can eat us for another month.”

Ugh!

He winked yet again. “If grand folk didn't have enemies, they could live in houses.”

If poor folk had money, they could live in castles. “I never saw an ogre or a dragon before I came to town.”

“How do you like them?” He picked up another cucumber.

I'd minced three onions to his single cucumber. “They're both big. I saw the ogre turn himself into a monkey. What a sight that was!”

His smile reached his ears. “He's a fine monkey.”

“Do you think him fine as an ogre, too?”

“His
Lordship
”—he stressed the title—“pays better wages than any other master, and never a beating or a harsh word.” He winked. “Hardly a word at all. What does that matter?”

“The people of Two Castles seem not to care for him.”

“That den of thieves! None of us comes from there. They won't work for him, and we wouldn't work for anyone else.”

If all the servants came from elsewhere, then Master Thiel couldn't be a groom or any sort of servant. “They say His Lordship's dog was taken right here in the castle. Who would do such a thing?”

He thrust his head at me, then drew back because of the onions, no doubt. “We wouldn't!”

He had no more winks or words for me. I nicked my finger and sucked the drop of blood that beaded up. Master Jak would see red if the onions were pink.

The castle bells rang midmorning.

A hand gripped my shoulder. “By thunder, His Lordship wants you to be cupbearer at the feast and pour for him, the king, and the princess.” Master Jak turned me on my stool. “Have you poured before?”

The king! “At home, from pitcher to cup.”

“At home.” He sighed and let my shoulder go. “Pitcher. Cup. By thunder.”

The boy laughed. Master Jak glared at him, and he lowered his head and peeled.

“I have a steady arm.” But I didn't know how steady it would be, pouring for Greedy Grenny.

“Cellarer Bwat will show you.
Eh
lodie, those you serve should have what they want before they know they want it. Watch their hands, their shoulders, their faces. Even though you stand behind them, contrive to see.”

How? I would lean over and spill wine on everyone.

“His Lordship requested you. The princess will be forbearing, but if you spill a drop, even a speck of a drop, on the king . . . By thunder, don't.”

What if I did? A flogging? Prison?

A woman's voice called, “Master Jak, do you have the suet crock?”

He called back. “There's another in the cupboard.” He put his hand under my chin and pulled my face toward his. I saw his pores, the veins in his eyes, a drop of sweat sliding down his nose. “If you spoil His Lordship's day—if you cause him a moment of grief—you will feel the wrath of a chief third assistant cook. Cellarer Bwat will come for you in a minute.” He strode away.

I lifted the half-full bowl of onions onto my lap. With the side of my knife, I scraped chopped onions from the chopping board into the bowl.

Master Jak stood over me again. “I near forgot. After the second remove, before the mansioners perform, His Lordship would like you to recite for his guests.”

“Recite?” I jumped up. “Something? Truly? Oh, Master Jak!” I wiped my tears with my fist. “What should I recite?”

“Whatever you . . .” He looked down.

I did, too. Unaware, I'd let my bowl slide to the floor, spilling the onions.

I was sorry, but I didn't care. I was going to mansion!

If I wasn't first sent to jail.

Cellarer Bwat's most prominent feature, his bushy, white eyebrows, stood out from his face. If my pouring went amiss, his watery blue eyes might spring open wide and pop his eyebrows off.

His lips were pinched, his nose a mere button. His head tilted permanently in a listening attitude. He led me out of the kitchen, walking bent from the waist, as if he spoke only to seated people. As I followed, I thought about what to recite.

I could tell the touching tale of Io, who was doomed to roam the world as a heifer. No, not a good choice, to portray a shape-shifted cow in the presence of a shape-shifting ogre.

“Don't dawdle, girl.”

“My name is Elodie, Cellarer Bwat.”

The vast emptiness of the great hall had been filled. Boards mounted on trestles and placed end to end formed a table that stretched two-thirds the length of the chamber. A shorter trestle table had been erected on the dais, with the three chairs drawn up to it. Benches flanked the chairs. Neither table had yet been covered with cloth, and the bare, pocked wood looked shabby.

The walls were hung with linen panels, freshly dyed, colors bright. A scene of feasting spread across the outer wall. The diners could pretend the fabric an improving reflection, their persons made beautiful or handsome as they raised tumblers, fed one another, laughed, or sang.

On the opposite wall, the hangings depicted an animal parade led by a lion, ending with a mouse. In the middle I spied a large golden dog, a monkey, a beaver, a boar, and many more. Some of them I suspected of being fantastical: a creature with an endless neck, a striped horse, an awkward beast with a lump on its back as big as a wheelbarrow. I wondered if one was the high eena Masteress Meenore said I'd heard when I'd passed the menagerie.

Among all the animals there was not a single cat.

Servants were placing trestles for side tables. Cellarer Bwat took me to the end of the long table just below the dais, where a wine bottle, a pitcher of water, a goblet, and two tumblers had been placed. On the floor stood a beer barrel with a spigot screwed into its side.

In an urgent, loud whisper, Cellarer Bwat said, “You will uncork the wine with a sharp twist of the wrist.” He demonstrated in the air, then gave me the bottle.

What tale should I perform?

I held the bottle in my left hand, the cork in my right, then twisted. Half the cork remained in the bottle.

Cellarer Bwat sighed and called in an even louder whisper for another bottle. “Pull while you twist.”

Should I recite the speech of a young siren, newly arrived on her rock, before she has lured her first mariner to his death? It was moving and right for my years.

Cellarer Bwat said, “You will pass the open bottle below the noses, first of His Highness, then of His Lordship, an inch below their noses, no closer, no farther, so they may smell the wine. Do not pass the bottle under the princess's nose.”

“Why not, Cellarer Bwat?”

“Her upper lip will grow. Wine has that effect on ladies.”

The inner ward door opened. Cellarer Bwat fell to his knees with a crack that must have hurt. He tugged me into a curtsy.

“Stay down,” he hissed.

I raised my head to see who'd entered. Cellarer Bwat pushed it down. I had only a moment to take in a tall, paunchy man with shoulders pulled back, wearing a bright red cloak.

The voice was familiar, in a lower register than the one I knew, but just as prone to soaring and plummeting. The speaker could only be the king. “I had hardly awakened when the loveliest breakfast arrived at my door. Scalded milk with honey, neither too hot nor too cold.” His voice rose half an octave. “Perfect! Accompanied by two scones, and they were warm, too!”

A retelling of every morsel of his breakfast followed, while Cellarer Bwat and I knelt. From the corner of my eye, I saw the other servants kneeling, too. My neck cramped.

“Now I'm hoping it will be possible to secure a slice of ginger cake on this pretty dish.” Porcelain rattled. He'd opened His Lordship's plate cabinet.

“Certainly, Your Highness.” A servant must have taken the plate.

Feet and ankles in leather-soled hose entered the area of floor I could see. “What are you two doing?”

“Bowing to you, Your Highness,” Cellarer Bwat whispered.

“Curtsying to you, Your Highness,” I whispered.

“Before I came in, of course. You may stand.”

We did. My eyes were drawn to the king's cap, which was set with rubies and emeralds. He wore no crown, but the rubies formed a band, like a crown, with the emeralds dotting the top of his skull.

“I am training her to be a cupbearer. She will serve you and His Lordship and your daughter this evening.”

The king's face reminded me of a pigeon's: no chin, eyes as round as coins, and a down-turned mouth. He and his daughter both had long sloping noses and nothing else alike, lucky for her.

“I see. Excellent. A beginner.” Royal sarcasm. He mounted the dais and sat in the golden chair.

I noticed that his tunic, wine red and embroidered with gold thread at the throat, had an oily stain on the belly and caked food on the sleeve.

“You may teach her now. She will pour, and I will drink.”

Oh no! My fingers turned to ice.

Cellarer Bwat's face reddened. “But Your Highness, she isn't ready.”

“No matter. As I am the king, it will be extraordinarily good practice for her. First I should like a tumbler of water. Water goes best with ginger cake, although our southern Lepai water tastes sweetest. Beer is preferable with plain. . . .”

A servant entered with his cake. The servants who had remained kneeling rose gradually, as if prepared to lower themselves again instantly.

Cellarer Bwat and I carried the wine bottle and other preparations to the dais table. Then we circled around to stand beside the king. Two more servants struggled up with the beer barrel. Cellarer Bwat held my elbow and guided my hand as I poured water from pitcher into tumbler. Almost inaudibly, he whispered, “Pour slowly, gent—”

“I thought
I
was speaking. I thought I was king, and people were to listen when I spoke.”

“Beg pardon, Your Majesty.”

How could Cellarer Bwat tell me what to do without speaking?

“No harm done. White wine is best with aged rabbit, an infrequent treat. . . .”

With the king listing beverages and foods, and with Cellarer Bwat's hand under my forearm, I held the tumbler out to His Highness.

He took it carelessly and splashed the front of his cloak. I heard a sharp intake of breath from Cellarer Bwat.

“How clumsy,” the king said.

A servant rushed to him with a cloth, but he waved her away.

“It will dry.” He raised the tumbler, drank, then spit into my face.

Chapter Nineteen

M
y mouth fell open, and water and spittle dripped into it. How dare he? “Your Highness—” My voice was indignant.

Cellarer Bwat's foot came down hard on mine.

The foot reminded me that I had rarely mansioned a humble role. I made my voice silken. “Beg pardon, Your Majesty. I regret your—my—clumsiness.”

“I forgive you. There is a pink wine they make in . . .”

The king went on speaking and eating between sentences. I wiped my face on my sleeve. After he finished his cake, he called for a bowl of fruit.

Since Cellarer Bwat couldn't use words to instruct me, he held my hands and arms in a viselike grip that barred mistakes. With a mansioner's concentration, I noted every move: how high we filled a tumbler with beer, how high with water, how much wine went into a goblet after the wine had been pronounced drinkable.

His Highness didn't spit on me again, but he thrust out a leg and tripped one of the servants who was going off to fetch a fresh keg of beer. The servant apologized and was forgiven instantly.

I pondered whether the king liked the servant and me better for our humiliation, or liked us less, because he knew he had been at fault, really, each time.

The castle bells chimed noon. My mind drifted back to pieces I might perform. Perhaps a funny recitation would be best. I could tell an animal fable.

After the fruit had been devoured, the king raised the bowl, so a shaft of sunlight hit it. “Such excellent porcelain. See, girl, how the light glints through it?”

He was addressing me, and I didn't dare tell him to call me Elodie. “I see, Your Highness.”

“I do not own such a fine piece. I wonder if his is all so good.”

Then he sent for a bowl of chicken gizzards. If Greedy Grenny kept eating until the guests arrived, I wouldn't have a moment to rehearse. He licked his fingers after eating his gizzards. His fingers and lips shone with grease.

Suppose I recited the story of Princess Rosette, whose dog stole meat from the castle cook to prevent a wedding. The tale had three aspects of His Lordship's danger: thievery, a dog, and a betrothal.

Greedy Grenny asked if the ogre kept any apple wine. A servant was dispatched. Meanwhile, the king began cracking walnuts, his latest craving. He had downed six tumblers of water, two of beer, and five half-filled goblets of wine. His insides must have been afloat, but he had given me a great deal of practice. Cellarer Bwat's guiding hand on my arm had gradually lightened. I had learned to pour.

The apple wine arrived. With a flourish and without assistance, I uncorked the bottle and passed it under the king's nose at precisely the correct distance. The king pronounced the wine excellent. “But it is not quite the flavor to accompany walnuts.” He frowned. “I must have dried cherries.”

I despaired of leaving the hall before the feast began. Humble, I told myself as an idea formed, feel humble. I curtsied so deeply that my trembling legs almost gave way. “Pardon me—”

Cellarer Bwat whispered a cry of dismay.

“How dare you address me? Insupportable!”

Prison for me. But I thought I knew him by now. I used my quaking legs and pitched over to the side and onto the floor, away from the table and his legs. “Oof!”

He laughed and went on laughing, while I tried to get up and made myself fall again.

“You may rise.”

I scrambled up, awkward on purpose.

“You have leave to speak.”

I told him I was to perform tonight and begged for time to practice. “I would hate to disgrace Lepai.”

He gave me leave to leave. Cellarer Bwat's face was purple, I supposed because he would have to pour for the king now. I pitied him, but not enough to stay.

In the postern outer ward, a woman picked pears. I didn't want an audience, so I sped toward the south side of the castle, hoping it would be deserted. As I rounded the corner, three grooms on horseback trotted my way, exercising their mounts. Next to me, wooden stairs climbed to the battlements. I could practice on high, where the wind would carry my voice away.

Sixty-nine steps brought me to the wall walk. I called, “Halloo! Is anyone here?”

No answer but the breeze in my ears. The sun was long past noon. Soon the arriving guests would end my chance to prepare.

For those who've never visited a castle, the inner curtain wall walk is wide enough for two tall men to lie across it head to toe. During a battle, soldiers are stationed here to shoot arrows at an approaching army and to drop boiling water and rocks on an army that's arrived. The soldiers are protected from the enemy by the crenellated battlement, a wall that looks gap-toothed, like a jack-o'-lantern's smile. The tooth is called the
merlon
, the gum the
embrasure
.

But with no battle and no soldiers, I had room to rehearse.

Master Jak hadn't said how long my performance was to be. The tale of Princess Rosette could take half an hour. I couldn't ready myself for half an hour's performance in half an hour!

I strode down the western wall walk, skirting a chimney opening that belched gray smoke. Confine myself to five minutes. Start in the middle of the tale, since everyone knows the whole.

“The little dog”—I cleared my throat—“the little dog, pitying his . . .” No, I should begin at a more thrilling moment. I paced.

Yes! I had it. I climbed to the walk atop the northwest tower. From here I could see the harbor and imagine my voice crossing the strait to Albin and Mother and Father.

“At midnight”—deeper for a narrator's fullness—“while the princess dreamed of her peacocks, the nurse whispered in the ear of the riverboat master.”

I paced, considering how to portray the moment when the princess would be thrown overboard.

Below, someone shouted. Hooves clattered on wood. I heard rumbling. The guest wagons must be approaching. I looked down and saw a horse-drawn cart rolling up the ramp to the drawbridge.

I had to protect His Lordship. But oh, I was going to make a fool of myself when I performed.

Six more carts wound up the road, followed by two oxen towing the purple mansion. I supposed the actors were within, the mansion needed only as a conveyance because the troupe would perform inside the castle. My heart rose at the gay sight of the pennants, rippling in the wind.

I started down the steps to the lower northern wall walk. What was that tawny heap on the walk below, snug against the inner gatehouse tower? A guard's woolly cloak?

Whatever it was, it was none of my concern with the count to watch over.

The cloak moved.

I raced down the steps. The cloak thumped its tail.