Here's a scene I finished today. I post it here just as it came from my brain, i.e., rough and unedited. These are only first-draft words meaning there is still much work that needs to be done before they will be even close to ready for publication, including, of course, choosing names for my characters!
In F’s entourage was a cook. E was from the valley famous for its vintage grapes and grain-fed calves. It was unusual to find a man in the kitchen, but he was very competent with knife and herb H had to admit. He brought his own utensils and packets of seasonings as well as an ample supply of wines from his home village. Whether this was for cooking or drinking it was hard to tell as he quite liberally used the vintage for both uses.
“He be spending most evenings sleeping it off after the meal is served,” H muttered, “leaving the clean up to the rest of us.”
B and I were finishing an inventory of the pantry, preparing to make a shopping list for the next days' meals. I studied E covertly as I watched him slice and dice the vegetables on the chopping table before him. His knife was a blur — when he was not sipping out of the wooden cup he had on the table before him. I wondered if he might lose a finger or two, if one might end up in our evening’s meal. His head wobbled as he scraped the vegetables onto a platter before adding them to the broth boiling briskly over the cooking fire. He was a heavyset man though not yet gone to fat, but I did not think that explained his wandering step.
H was muttering again. “We having some hoity-toity dish tonight,” she said. “My cooking is not good enough for that Lady F.”
I turned, surprised. “She has changed the menu?” I asked. B and I had worked out the menus carefully, wanting to set a table in the style F was used to and still manage our larder efficiently. This was the first I had heard of any changes.
“She came in earlier herself,” H said, “with them mushrooms.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the chopping table where E was briskly slicing pale brown mushrooms of a kind I had never seen before. “Said they were some special sort she had been craving and could he please cook her up a sauce of them.”
She is now the lady of the keep, I reminded myself, gnawing on my lower lip. So it is perfectly within her purview to change the menu. I looked at B uncertainly. She must have read the question in my eyes.
“For now,” she said, “we will continue as we always have. If Lady F wants to step into your shoes, she will let you know soon enough.”
We turned back to the shelves where we were counting crocks of flour and sugar and soon the savory smell of frying mushrooms wafted through the kitchen accompanied by the sizzle of the saute pan. I heard a glug from the wine jug followed by a splash and sizzle and wondered how much was going into the sauce and how much into the cook.
We had settled at the side table with our list, cups of H’s tart and sweet lemonade at our elbows when there came a howl of dismay from E’s end of the kitchen.
“Blasted creature has been in my sauce!” He was swatting at one of the kitchen cats which, enticed by the smell of the cooling mushroom sauce, had leaped onto the table and was lapping it up. E swung and missed once, but his second swing connected and sent the cat sailing off the table where it landed with a thud on its side on the floor.
I watched, puzzled, for I had never seen a cat land any way but on its feet. It was a tabby, grey and white striped with white front feet. It lay stunned a moment, then leaped to it feet, took one staggering step before its back end fell over again and it crumpled there on the floor, twitched and lay still.
“You killed it!” shrieked the kitchen maid and burst into tears. She had always been a kind-hearted sort.
“I never!” E protested. He stood looking down at the pitiful beast with dismay, wobbling slightly, blinking rather like he had just woken.
“You must a broken his back,” H declared.
I stooped by the little creature to stroke its fur but paused before I touched it.
“No, look,” I said, “around its mouth. It has been poisoned.” There was a froth around its mouth a pale brown color. I glanced at the pan of mushroom sauce still sitting on the table, then at E.
He had gone quite white, still blinking and blinking. He began to back away nervously from the table. The kitchen maid gave a little squeal then dashed out of his way. He came up against her stool and sat down upon it with a resounding thump.
“What kind of mushrooms are those?” B asked quietly.
“I— I truly do not know,” he stammered. He licked his lips nervously and his eyes flicked to the wine jug on the table. “I have never seen them before. Lady F brought them in. She said they were from her home valley — a favorite from her childhood—” His voice faltered.
“I do not think we will be serving those at his Lord’s table tonight,” B said. “Mandi, will you scrape those into the midden, please, and cover them thoroughly. In fact, you might find a boy to dig you a hole first. Then wash your hands before you come back inside.”
The kitchen maid left the kitchen holding the pan outstretched before her in trembling hands.
“You also, E,” B said. “Wash your hands. And we will want to scrub that chopping table and the knives.” She gazed at the body of the poor cat. “Send the pot boy out to stables if you would, H, for one of the lads to come in for this unfortunate creature.”
H moved to the outside door. B moved to the hallway door and I followed behind. She turned back into the room to study E who still sat on the stool, pale and trembling. He gazed back at her with wet large eyes. “No more will be said of this for now. I trust that you will see that nothing like this happens again.” He nodded once, jerkily, and we left the kitchen.
from current Work in Progress
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