Kate Sedley - The Green Man

But looking at the king — and I was only a few feet from him, Albany, as guest of honour, being seated on his right hand — I doubted very much if any of them would have that distinction. Toying with his food, drinking far too much wine, he seemed to me to be too sick a man to lead an army into Scotland. My guess was that, on the morrow, he would relinquish overall command to my lord of Gloucester and return to London.

By the time that the main courses had finally been cleared from the tables and replaced with bowls of fruit, dishes of nuts and raisins, sugared violets and strawberries soaked in wine, I was feeling faint with hunger. I hissed at the page, ‘When do we eat?’ but he only shrugged and turned away, indicating patience. But I was beyond patience and, noting that Albany was deep in conversation with Lord Hastings, seated on his right hand, I abandoned my post and followed a line of servers to the kitchens.

There, the heat and noise were almost overpowering, cooks bellowing their orders above the general din, bellows-boys heating cauldrons of water over three or four great fires so that the scullions could begin the endless chore of washing the dirty dishes, more flagons of wine being dragged up and loaded on to salvers by the cellarer and his assistants and a sense of chaos prevailing over all. No one took any notice of me, which was just as well as far as I was concerned. I had discovered six huge baskets, each one rising above my waist in height and crammed to the top with leftovers from the banquet. The broken meats — including whole joints — pastries, pies, tarts, most with hardly a bite taken out of them before being pushed aside for yet another dainty, would surely have fed the whole of Bristol for several days, and certainly kept me happy for as long as I needed to assuage my hunger. And just as I was feeling that my belly would explode if I crammed it with any more food, I espied, laid out on a side bench, a row of untouched jellies, striped red and yellow and green, beautifully gilded as so many of the rest of the victuals had been. (Early on in the feast, a dish of gilded meatballs had provoked much ribaldry at the high table, even the king shaking off his lethargy to join in the laughter.) I grabbed a spoon from a pile close at hand — clean or dirty, it was all the same to me — and attacked the jelly nearest to me.

It tasted delicious.

‘Oi!’ shouted an indignant voice. ‘Ooever you are, leave our jellies alone! They’re only for people oo work in the kitchen.’

I didn’t even deign to glance round, merely holding up two fingers in the devil’s sign. A man in a sackcloth apron, and brandishing an enormous carving knife, seized me by the shoulder.

‘Didn’t you ’ear what I said? Oo are you? Get off back where you belong. Yer master’ll be looking for you, anyway. The mummings and suchlike are about to begin.’

I didn’t feel I could argue with the knife, but managed to sneak a last spoonful of jelly before holding up my hands in submission.

‘I’m going! I’m going! These are very good,’ I added, wiping my sticky chin on one sleeve. ‘You can tell the cook I said so. What mummings? Nobody tells me anything.’

The kitchener, a small man who had had time to assimilate my height and girth, grew less aggressive.

‘Oh, jugglers, tumblers, lutists, singers, the usual sort o’ thing. And a masque to finish.’ He added lugubriously, ‘There’s always a masque. If you turn sharp right when you leave the kitchens and mount the flight o’ steps at the end of the passageway, you’ll find yerself in a room next the great ’all, where all them lot’ll be waiting while the lackeys clear away the trestles and put the benches round the walls, ready fer the performance.’ My companion sniggered. ‘Such a prancing about and clearing o’ throats and tuning up of instruments you’ve never witnessed in yer life! I peeped in on ’em just now. You never saw such antics. Laugh! I thought I should’ve died! Poncy fellows, the lot of ’em. Poxy, too, I shouldn’t wonder.’

I thanked him for his information, but said I must be getting back to my master who would no doubt have missed me by this time.

‘Well, tell ’im, ooever ’e is, t’ feed you,’ the kitchener grunted, eyeing with dissatisfaction the havoc I had caused to the first of the jellies.

I promised to do so and edged my way out of the steam and the noise into the comparative coolness and quiet of the corridor. I was about to return to the great hall following the same route by which I had come, using the stairs immediately opposite the kitchen entrance, when a slight noise to my left attracted my attention and made me pause.

‘Who’s there?’ I demanded, peering into the gloom of the passageway, which seemed suddenly, eerily, deserted. I turned around and stared behind me. ‘Is there anyone there?’

There was a rush of movement and I was thrown against the wall, an extra shove with an outstretched hand sending me sprawling on the bottom few treads of the stairs. I was vaguely aware of a strange, mask-like face before struggling to pick myself up.

‘Stop!’ I commanded, but I was badly winded and the word came out in a breathless croak.

I staggered forward a few steps, but of course there was no one there. Whoever had brought me down had vanished while I was getting to my feet. After a moment or two, when I was feeling a little more myself, I recalled hearing the rattle of a latch and the thud of a closing door, and came to the conclusion that my assailant was one of the mummers late for the start of the entertainment, and that I had been in his way. He had most probably been unaware of the force with which he had pushed me aside. I toyed with the idea of going after him, but then realized that not only would I not recognize either him or the mask he was wearing, but I should be laying myself open to ridicule. I was a big, strong man. Was I going to complain because a mummer had accidentally floored me?

Nevertheless, for no good reason that I could fathom, the silly little incident had upset me and made me uneasy. I stared for a few seconds longer into the gloom of the passageway before brushing myself down and mounting the staircase behind me. At the top, I shouldered open the door into the great hall which had now been transformed into a vast empty space, with all tables except the high table, on its dais, folded and stacked away, and the benches arranged around the room’s perimeter ready for the audience to take its seat for the evening’s entertainment. A great number of the guests were still strolling about, exchanging greetings with people they had been unable to come at during the feast, and I noted with relief that my lord Albany, attended by the faithful Davey Gray, had crossed the hall to speak to Master Hobbes, King Edward’s personal physician. (As a matter of interest, I will mention here that there were no less than nine other surgeons in the royal retinue, not one of whom, it is needless to say, was included for the benefit of the ordinary poor bastard of a foot soldier.)

My relief was short-lived. Turning away from Master Hobbes, Albany spotted me and came striding back to the dais, a gathering frown marring his handsome face.

‘Where the devil have you been?’ he demanded wrathfully, mounting the three steps in a single bound and seizing me by one arm. ‘I ordered you to remain behind my chair throughout all mealtimes. And you have the damned effrontery to disobey me.’

‘Then you should have the grace to see that I’m fed, not left standing while you gorge yourself half to death and I’m nigh fainting with hunger … Your Highness!’ I added as an afterthought.

I heard the page draw in his breath and saw him tense his slim form as he waited for the explosion of royal anger. But this failed to materialize. Albany and I stared at one another, eyeball to eyeball, for several seconds, then he dropped his hand from my arm and gave his charming smile.