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For three years it sat in the church, a symbol of civilization in Tide-by-Rood, polished to a shine, stately and ... silent. No one knew how to play it. And then Choirmaster came to our town—a strange thing, for no one came to our town—and brought the organ to life.
Now Lady Temsland, always calm and unruffled, had a slight blush upon her cheek, and said, “Son, we must find some new and wonderful dishes to delight the palate of the king when he comes.”
“Send for Cook!” John cried.
Cook came quickly, as if she had been awaiting his summons.
“Here I am, m’ lord,” she said.
“Undoubtedly you have heard,” John said respectfully, for he loved the old woman. When he was an infant, she had nursed him. After he was weaned, she took a place as pie mistress of the kitchen and often made him ci
Cook rubbed her soft whiskers. “And what would that be, Joh
“I don’t know. You are the cook.”
“Don’t forget, young sire, we’re just a poor village in the farthest corner of Angleland. Do you think I have anything here to interest a king?”
“You will try, Cook,” John commanded, though he was unused to asserting his authority.
“Can’t do it,” she said bluntly.
I saw Beatrice gasp and Gretta’s eyes open wide.
John reddened. Everyone in the room looked from him to Cook and back again. Cook stood her ground.
“You will do as I say,” John said firmly.
“Can’t, Joh
He sputtered, “Cook, you mustn’t call me...”
“I changed your nappies, sire,” she said.
“By the...!”
Lady Temsland leaned over and laid a soft hand on her son’s. “Perhaps, Cook, you will call him Joh
“I am old, lady,” Cook said, more humbly.
“Your sons, though?”
“They have learned to cook by rote, lady. Not one has the gift. They are all three hopeless knaves, taking after their father, who thankfully died years ago.”
Lady Temsland nodded understandingly, though she could not entirely quit the smile from her face. “Well then, we shall have to depend upon God for help.”
I spoke up. “If I may, lady.”
Even Lady Temsland, who was always composed, seemed surprised that I would speak up again. Beatrice blushed for shame in my behalf.
“This Keturah Reeve,” Cook said, her whiskers bristling, “she ca
“Padmoh will help—she won Best Cook. And I can help. We can all help.”
Every eye was upon me, but it was John Temsland’s eyes that I felt. “And what can you do?” he asked me.
“I can do tricky things with eggs and herbs and cheeses.”
“Peasant food,” he said, sighing.
“But delicious,” I said.
Everyone was shocked that I had contradicted the young lord. My boldness came, perhaps, from remembering that one whom even the young lord must obey wanted to marry me.
“Sir, it is said the queen has a lemon drink every year at Christmas,” I said. “Lemon is a precious fruit, but if your lordship could lay hands upon two or three, I could make a dish with them that the queen would love.” And one, I thought, that would win me Best Cook at the fair and Ben Marshall for a husband and perhaps even a shoe full of gold.
“Tobias!” John called.
“Sire,” said the boy, stepping forward.
“Tobias, might I count on you to search out lemons for Keturah to make a dish for the queen?”
“Yes, m’lord, for her and for you—and the queen, of course.”
“Very well. Here—this should be enough.” John took a purse of coins from his own vest. “Take a horse. Any one that you choose. And hurry back—we’ll need every man’s help.”
“Yes, m’lord!” Tobias flashed me a smile before he ran toward the stable. In the moment that I watched him go, John Temsland and his mother turned to enter their private apartments, and I had lost my chance for an interview with John.
Still, there were plans in place to clean up the village, and the day was not over.
The villagers began to scatter, pla
Come, Lord Death, I thought grimly. You shall not have Tide-by-Rood, or me, after all.
My two friends and I linked arms as we walked together from the square. Beatrice spoke eagerly about the upcoming visit of the king, wondering what he looked like and if he had small or large feet, until Gretta hushed her.
“Forgive us our gaiety, Keturah,” Gretta said. “We have not forgotten your bargain. In fact, I have devised a plan so you can marry the least imperfect man in the village. I will sew a lady’s gown for the queen and say you did it, and it will be so beautiful that you will win the king’s shoe, and you will use it for a dowry to wed Tailor.”
I smiled gratefully and said firmly. “Thank you, Gretta. But he is for you.”
“Nonsense. How can I possibly marry a man whose favorite color is orange?”
“Well, if not he, then Choirmaster,” said Beatrice. “But I don’t know how to win his heart for you.”
As if by saying his name she had conjured him, Choirmaster appeared before us. He had a bag dangling from a stick that he carried over his shoulder, and he was walking toward the forest.
“Choirmaster!” Beatrice called.
He stopped but did not turn around. Then he continued to walk.
“Choirmaster!” she cried, louder this time, and ran with all speed to him. Gretta and I followed more slowly.
Finally he turned about and nodded his head gravely. “Well met, Beatrice,” he said. He nodded to Gretta and me.
“Where are you going, Choirmaster?” Beatrice asked.
“Into the forest,” he said sadly.
I laid my hand on his forearm. “Good sir, that way is death.”
“That I well know, Sister Reeve,” he said, and he made to turn himself about and enter the trees. The trees seemed to reach their branches toward him, whispering to him to come, come.
“Sir, what can be so bad?” Beatrice asked with alarm.
“I tried to explain to the young lord,” he said. “But he would not listen. The king loves music, he said. You must have the choir sing, he said, well enough to charm a king. Alas, I ca
I knew how Choirmaster had ended up here—people in the richer towns could not bear to be quite as sad and somber as Choirmaster could make them.
“Oh!” Beatrice suddenly cried aloud. “Dear Choirmaster,” she said, “I believe I may have a solution to your woes. I mean—I mean, I believe Keturah may have a solution to your woes.”
“Indeed?” He took out a great white handkerchief and dabbed his stupendous nose with it.
“She—she has a—a cousin, whose name is Bill. And he sings.”
“Bill? Why have I never heard of him?”
I wondered the same myself, and then I realized what Beatrice was suggesting. As a girl she could not sing in the choir, but as a boy she could.
“He—he rarely sings, sir, for his mother fears making the angels jealous,” I said with an encouraging look from Beatrice.
“Truly?”
“She will send him to you, and you shall have your soprano, and beautiful music,” Beatrice said.