relationship she had with her mother, and not for the first time she wished herself back in the Bywood kitchen. Tears of homesickness pricked her eyes, and she allowed herself a few minutes to wallow in self-pity before she noticed she was getting wet.
Once inside she sought out Alfred, who was in charge of the bustling kitchen. Several large fish, caught that day in the stewpond, were being dressed at one end of a table; a rabbit lay limp at the other, its clouded eye staring accusingly at the kitchen maid coming at it with a sharp knife; and Alfred was calling orders to the scullery boys who were assigned to carving hunks of stale bread into trenchers for that day’s dinner. Hanging from the low beams were drying herbs, garlic, and many kinds of game birds. Alfred shook his head when he saw Kate.
“And what be it today, young mistress,” he asked, raising one eyebrow and trying to look fierce. Kate grinned and dropped a quick curtsy.
Alfred was lord of his kitchen, and she had learned that showing him a little respect went a long way. He was a burly man with thick arms that looked as though they were made for felling trees not dicing carrots. His hat, stained with grease and dusted with flour, was pushed to the back ofhis head. His rosy cheeks gave him a cherubic look, but, though his food was heavenly, there was nothing angelic about the way he ran his kitchen. When Kate told him of her sin, he wagged his floury finger at her and told her to go and help stir the sauces simmering over the logs in the great-hall hearth.
“I pray to St. Martha you will not daydream and burn them again, young lady,” he admonished her as she skipped off through the buttery and into the great hall. She picked up a three-legged stool and sat down by the hearth next to a girl a few years older than she. As she plied the wooden spoon back and forth in the delicious-smelling sauce, she escaped from Elinor’s domain into her private thoughts, just as the smoke curled up past a curious carved gargoyle at the end of a beam and vanished through the vent.
Her champion, Richard, had left the Mote not two weeks after Kate had bidden her family farewell. Those two weeks had been dreamlike, Richard giving her ample reason to feel welcome.
He had ordered her new shifts in fine linen and an overdress in soft, blue wool. A needlewoman had been brought in to take measurements, and Kate was astounded that someone else would be sewing her clothes for her. Richard had also taught her to ride sidesaddle. Anne was a little fearful of horses, but Kate’s farm upbringing gave her a natural affinity for animals, and she had learned to ride astride Roland’s broad back at an early age. Once both girls had mastered the awkward new saddle, Richard had taken them into the village of Ightham, where a peddler made a handsome profit on some ribbons Richard could not resist and Kate was fitted for new leather shoes that were as smooth and silky as the pink interior of Fenris’s ears. Best of all, Richard ordered his minstrel to give both girls music lessons.
Soon Richard had more important matters to attend to than the whims of two eleven-year-olds and he rode off to London.
Kate was curious. “Why has he gone to London?” she asked Elinor, who was mending a veil. “Is that where the market is?” The only times her father had left the farm was to go to market. Surely the market in Tunbridge was closer than London.
Elinor snorted. “Market? We have servants who go to market. MasterHaute has important business in London—at court.” She savored the last two words and turned back to her task.
Kate sought out Elinor’s maid, Mary, next. She was in Elinor’s confidence, loved to gossip and decided that, as Kate was too young and ignorant to repeat anything, she would fill her in on where the Haute house stood on political issues. She explained that the king had recently proclaimed the duke of York his heir “through something called the Act of Accord.”
Kate
Once inside she sought out Alfred, who was in charge of the bustling kitchen. Several large fish, caught that day in the stewpond, were being dressed at one end of a table; a rabbit lay limp at the other, its clouded eye staring accusingly at the kitchen maid coming at it with a sharp knife; and Alfred was calling orders to the scullery boys who were assigned to carving hunks of stale bread into trenchers for that day’s dinner. Hanging from the low beams were drying herbs, garlic, and many kinds of game birds. Alfred shook his head when he saw Kate.
“And what be it today, young mistress,” he asked, raising one eyebrow and trying to look fierce. Kate grinned and dropped a quick curtsy.
Alfred was lord of his kitchen, and she had learned that showing him a little respect went a long way. He was a burly man with thick arms that looked as though they were made for felling trees not dicing carrots. His hat, stained with grease and dusted with flour, was pushed to the back ofhis head. His rosy cheeks gave him a cherubic look, but, though his food was heavenly, there was nothing angelic about the way he ran his kitchen. When Kate told him of her sin, he wagged his floury finger at her and told her to go and help stir the sauces simmering over the logs in the great-hall hearth.
“I pray to St. Martha you will not daydream and burn them again, young lady,” he admonished her as she skipped off through the buttery and into the great hall. She picked up a three-legged stool and sat down by the hearth next to a girl a few years older than she. As she plied the wooden spoon back and forth in the delicious-smelling sauce, she escaped from Elinor’s domain into her private thoughts, just as the smoke curled up past a curious carved gargoyle at the end of a beam and vanished through the vent.
Her champion, Richard, had left the Mote not two weeks after Kate had bidden her family farewell. Those two weeks had been dreamlike, Richard giving her ample reason to feel welcome.
He had ordered her new shifts in fine linen and an overdress in soft, blue wool. A needlewoman had been brought in to take measurements, and Kate was astounded that someone else would be sewing her clothes for her. Richard had also taught her to ride sidesaddle. Anne was a little fearful of horses, but Kate’s farm upbringing gave her a natural affinity for animals, and she had learned to ride astride Roland’s broad back at an early age. Once both girls had mastered the awkward new saddle, Richard had taken them into the village of Ightham, where a peddler made a handsome profit on some ribbons Richard could not resist and Kate was fitted for new leather shoes that were as smooth and silky as the pink interior of Fenris’s ears. Best of all, Richard ordered his minstrel to give both girls music lessons.
Soon Richard had more important matters to attend to than the whims of two eleven-year-olds and he rode off to London.
Kate was curious. “Why has he gone to London?” she asked Elinor, who was mending a veil. “Is that where the market is?” The only times her father had left the farm was to go to market. Surely the market in Tunbridge was closer than London.
Elinor snorted. “Market? We have servants who go to market. MasterHaute has important business in London—at court.” She savored the last two words and turned back to her task.
Kate sought out Elinor’s maid, Mary, next. She was in Elinor’s confidence, loved to gossip and decided that, as Kate was too young and ignorant to repeat anything, she would fill her in on where the Haute house stood on political issues. She explained that the king had recently proclaimed the duke of York his heir “through something called the Act of Accord.”
Kate
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