The King's Concubine. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ Princess’s eye lifted to take in my person. ‘Who are you?’

      ‘Alice, my lady.’ There was no welcome here. Not even a memory of who I was. ‘From St Mary’s Abbey at Barking, my lady.’

      A line dug between Isabella’s brows, then smoothed. ‘I remember. The girl with the rosary—the one who worked in the kitchens or some such.’

      ‘Yes, my lady.’

      ‘Her Majesty sent for you?’ Her fingers strummed over the lute strings again and her foot tapped impatiently. ‘I suppose I must do something with you.’ The glint in her eye, I decided, was not friendly.

      One of the ladies approached to put her hand on the Princess’s shoulder with the confidence of long acquaintance. ‘Play for us, Isabella. We have a new song.’

      ‘With pleasure. Take the girl to the kitchens, Joscelyn. Give her a bed and some food. Then put her to work. I expect that’s what Her Majesty intended.’

      ‘Yes, my lady.’

      Isabella had already given her attention to the ladies and their new song. The steward bowed himself out, pushing me before him, the door closing on that magical scene. I had not managed to step beyond the threshold, and I was shaken by a desire to do so, to be part of the life that went on behind that closed door.

      Sir Joscelyn strode off without a word, expecting me to follow, as I did. I should be grateful that I was being given food and a place to sleep. Would life as a kitchen wench at Havering-atte-Bower be better or worse than as a conversa in the Abbey at Barking? Would it be better than life as a drudge in the Perrers household?’ I was about to find out, thanks to the effortless malice of Princess Isabella, for I knew, beyond doubt, that the Queen had not brought me all the way from Barking to pluck chickens in her kitchens. It was all Isabella’s fault. I knew an enemy when I saw one.

      ‘This girl, Master Humphrey …’ The steward’s expression spoke his contempt. ‘Another of Her Majesty’s gutter sweepings to live off our charity.’

      A grunt was all the reply he got. Master Humphrey was wielding a cleaver on the carcass of a pig, splitting it down the backbone with much-practised skill.

      ‘The Lady said to bring her to you.’

      The cook stopped, in mid-chop, and looked up under grizzled brows. ‘And what, may I ask, do I do with her?’

      ‘Feed her. Give her a bed. Clothe her and put her to work.’

      ‘Ha! Look around you, Jos! What do you see?’

      I looked also. The kitchen was awash with activity: on all sides scullions, spit boys, pot boys, bottle washers applied themselves with a racket as if all hell had broken loose. The heat was overpowering from the ovens and open fires. I could already feel sweat beginning to trickle down my spine and dampen my hair beneath my hood.

      ‘What?’ Sir Joscelyn growled. I thought he did not approve of the liberty taken with his name.

      ‘I don’t employ girls, Jos. They’re not strong enough. Good enough for the dairy and serving the dishes—but not here.’ The cook emphasised the final word with a downward sweep of his axe.

      ‘Well, you do now. Princess Isabella’s orders. Kitchens, she said.’

      Another grunt. ‘And what the Lady wants …!’

      ‘Exactly.’

      Sir Joscelyn duly abandoned me in the midst of the teaming life of Havering’s kitchens. I recognised the activities—the cleaning, the scouring, the chopping and stirring—but my experience was a pale shadow to them. The noise was ear-shattering. Exhilarating. Shouts and laughter, hoots of ridicule, bellowed orders, followed inevitably by oaths and complaints. There seemed to be little respect from the kitchen lads, but the cook’s orders were carried out with a promptness that suggested a heavy hand if they transgressed them. And the food. My belly rumbled at the sight of it. As for the scents of roasting meat, of succulent joints …

      ‘Don’t stand there like a bolt of cloth.’

      The cook, throwing down his axe with a clatter, gave me no more than a passing look, but the scullions did, with insolent grins and earthy gestures. I might not have much experience of such signs with tongues and fingers—except occasionally in the market between a whore and a dissatisfied customer—but it did not take much imagination. They made my cheeks glow with a heat that was not from the fire.

      ‘Sit there.’ Master Humphrey pressed down on my shoulder with a giant hand, and so I did at the centre board, sharing it with the pig. A bowl of thick stew was dumped unceremoniously in front of me, a spoon pushed into my hand and a piece of stale wastel bread thrown down on the table within reach.

      ‘Eat, then—and fast. There’s work to be done.’

      I ate, without stopping. I drank a cup of ale handed to me. I had not realised how hungry I was.

      ‘Put this on.’

      A large apron of stained linen was held out by Master Humphrey as he carried a tray of round loaves to thrust into one of the two ovens. It was intended for someone much larger, and I hitched it round my waist or I would have tripped on it. I was knotting the strings, cursing Isabella silently under my breath, when the cook returned.

      ‘Now! Let me look at you!’ I stood before him. ‘What did you say your name was?’

      ‘Alice.’

      ‘Well, then, Alice, no need to keep your eyes on your feet here or you’ll fall on your arse.’ His expression was jaundiced. ‘You’re not very big.’

      ‘She’s big enough for what I’ve in mind!’ shouted one of the scullions, a large lad with tow hair. A guffaw of crude laughter.

      ‘Shut it, Sim. And keep your hands to yourself or …’ Master Humphrey seized and wielded his meat cleaver with quick chopping movements. ‘Pay them no heed.’ He took my hands in his, turned them over. ‘Hmm. What can you do?’

      I did not think it mattered what I said, given the continuing obscenities from the two lads struggling to manhandle a side of venison onto a spit. I would be given the lowliest of tasks. I would be a butt of jokes and innuendo.

      ‘Come on, girl! I’ve never yet met a woman with nothing to say for herself!’

      So far I had been moved about like the bolt of cloth he had called me, but if this was to be my future I would not sink into invisibility. With Signora Damiata I had controlled my manner because to do otherwise would have called down retribution. Here I knew that I must stand up for myself and demand some respect.

      ‘I can do that, Master Humphrey. And that.’ I pointed at the washing and scouring going on in a tub of water. ‘I can do that.’ A small lad was piling logs on the fire.

      ‘So could an imbecile!’ The cook aimed a kick at the lad at the fire, who grinned back.

      ‘I can make bread. I can kill those.’ Chickens clucking unsuspectingly in an osier basket by the hearth. ‘I can do that.’ I pointed to an older man who was gutting a fish, scooping the innards into a basin with the flat of his hand. ‘I can make a tincture to cure a cough. And СКАЧАТЬ