Keturah and Lord Death

After what seemed hours, I grabbed Cook as she scuttled by me. “Cook, surely by now I have earned my lemon,” I said.

“No, not yet,” she said. “Keep going.”

“How do I know you even have a lemon?” I asked, knowing she was a sly old thing.

“Oh, I do, I do.”

“Let’s see it, then,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t show my precious lemons to just any village girl,” she said.

So I made pies until I had repented of every sin I had ever committed, including coming for a lemon before I had asked John to do something to stay the plague. I confessed every sin out loud to the roasting pig. Whenever the pastor spoke of death, in the same breath he spoke of hell and fire. If death was anything like Lord Temsland’s kitchen, I had no desire to go there. I wondered if Lord Death ruled the good or the bad, and while I could remember no evil in the darkness of his eyes, I could tell they had seen much suffering. But then, it mattered not whether he was lord of the happy dead or the sad; I wanted no part of either.

At last Cook came and declared the pastries fine and the pig perfectly done, and I collapsed onto a stool.

“Now gravy,” she said, putting a buttery finger under my chin.

“No,” I said resolutely. “I know nothing about gravy.”

“Can you not cook, then?” she asked. “Shall I tell this to Ben Marshall?”

“Please, no! I can do pies. Meat pies and fruit pies. Pies. Only pies, but I am better at pies than Padmoh.”

She studied me, realizing perhaps that she had met a soul as stubborn as her own. “Come,” she said. “With the face of an angel you will serve, then. You can walk and carry a tray, can you not?”

I stood. “Yes. But before I take another step, I shall have my lemon.”

“Nay, but only serve, lass, and I shall find you my greenest lemon.”

“Green! But lemons are yellow.”

“That is what I meant—yellow.”

“You don’t have one!” I exclaimed. I grabbed her by the nose. “Confess, old brown tooth, you don’t have any lemons.”

“No, I don’t, foolish girl,” she said, smacking my hand. “There is not a one to be had in these parts, though I’ve heard one can be bought for its weight in gold in the Great Market. But if you love Lord Temsland and do not wish to disgrace him before the king’s messenger, then you shall serve!”

“Then I will ask the lord myself for a lemon,” I said stubbornly to Cook.

“Ask,” she said cheerfully. “And while you are at it, ask for half his holdings, an equally small thing.”

Gretta, Beatrice, and I were given heavy trays of trenchers to carry into the great hall. We were mournful at first, but when we saw the crowd, and saw that we would have a server’s close view of the messenger, Duke Morland, our hearts were cheered. The duke was dressed in turquoise silk, a man very different from Lord Temsland, who dressed in woolens and furs and had little time for much else but the hunt. Beatrice blushed when she served the messenger, and whispered to me that he smelled like a begonia.

The duke surveyed the feast before him, then smiled as one would who was served mudcakes by a little child. He concentrated on his food, chewing thoroughly, as if the meat were tough. Young John Temsland picked at his meat and ate nothing. Lady Temsland, too, ate lightly. Only Lord Temsland seemed to enjoy his food, licking his fingers and sopping up the sauce with Cook’s good bread, as if he were alone in the room, relaxed and unconcerned.

Lady Temsland and the duke exchanged pleasantries. As I served, I tried to attend more to the needs of John. I had not forgotten my gratitude that he had found me at the wood’s edge and carried me home, nor that he had promised me an interview.

“Keturah,” he said, smiling, when he saw that it was I who served him at table. “Are you well?”

“Well enough, sir,” I said, and returned his smile.

The messenger noted John’s kind words to me, a peasant, and frowned in obvious disapproval. John flushed at this and then said, with seeming care that Duke Morland hear him, “You are far too lovely to serve, Keturah Reeve, and too recently recovered from your adventure. Please, take off your apron and sit at table with us.”

“Oh no, sir, I...”

“It is my express desire,” he said, and I knew by his tone that I would anger him if I did not obey.

Numbly, I sat down at the table, but I did not remove my apron with its precious charm. Many villagers had gathered in the corners and shadows of the common room to see a messenger of the king. I could feel their eyes full upon me now, though I stared at the table and would not look up. Of all the eyes, it was those of the messenger’s, full of disdain, that I felt most.

Lord Temsland also seemed somewhat surprised, but he said nothing. The gracious Lady Temsland behaved as if everything was as it should be.

Gretta served me once, saying “Ma’am” with a little smile.

I stole glances at John. He had always been mischievous, but brave of heart. Though he was bucked off several times as a lad, he’d never learned to fear a horse and had become a masterful rider. Once he’d climbed a great tree and couldn’t get down. He had to be rescued by Cass

Porter, and his father made him chop Cass’s wood for a month as punishment. John had done it in good humor, and had even chopped the wood another fortnight—as his own apology, he had said.

I confess that I ate little, instead holding the eye while I looked at the men in the crowd. Soon, though, I could not bear its quivering, and I took my hand away.

It was not until the pastries were all passed that Duke Morland stated the king’s business.

“The fame of your land reaches the king,” the man said in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the hall.

The room fell silent. Tide-by-Rood, famous?

“I am honored, sir,” Lord Temsland answered in his deep, gruff voice. John, his mouth half-full of food, glanced uncomfortably at his mother.

The duke dabbed at his mouth, laid his napkin down primly, and leaned toward Lord Temsland. His voice was haughty. “The king has heard of the, ahem, great things you have supposedly done with this corner of the kingdom which he so generously gave you. He has heard”—here the messenger cast a dubious eye around the room—”that you have the best corner of all.”

Lord Temsland smiled broadly, stretched back in his chair, and put his arm on the back of his son’s chair. “Indeed I do,” he said. “The king was generous. There is no hunting anywhere as fine as in my forest lands.”

Everyone in the village knew how Lord Temsland had come to be lord of these lands. Many years before, the king had invited him to a hunt in the royal woodlands. The king did well that day, felling a six-point buck. All praised him until Lord Temsland, returning last, was discovered to have landed an even bigger buck. Soon thereafter some lords who were jealous of Lord Temsland used the moment of the king’s displeasure to persuade him that Lord Temsland should be humbled. His great lands near the court were taken away, and he was given a tiny manor in the southwest corner of the kingdom with only two villages, Tide-by-Rood and Marshall. “I have thought that with a good lord to oversee these lands, much could be done with them,” the king told him. “But at least it is rich in forest lands and teeming with game. With your hunting abilities, you’ll surely be happy there.”

Indeed, once he got over his resentment at being virtually banished from the court and from titled society, Lord Temsland was happy enough here, and his wife and son loved their lands and people. But it was well known that Lord Temsland was the poorest of the lords, and whenever he went to court, many mocked him for his misfortune. Since neither the king nor the lords ever ventured this far, Lord Temsland had taken to making up stories about his lands—how the villagers were as fair and good as the people of Great Town.