First Light (11 page)

“There are
no
visitors allowed,” the guard on the right said.

Friendly sort of place
. I wondered how someone jovial like Merry Anne could possibly fit in. Perhaps I’d misunderstood and her reference to my sister and the castle was no more than a passing comment. Perhaps Cecilia only lived near the castle and not in it.

“No new servants are being employed,” the other added.

“If either my sister or my— er— friend have employ here, it will have been for quite some time,” I said. “Her name is Cecilia, and she—”

The tip of a sword at my neck silenced the remainder of my sentence. Somehow the guards had moved even faster than before. One held me securely, arms pinned behind me, while the other stood poised, ready to run me through or relieve me of my head. I heard the loud thump of my heart.

“My escort Merry Anne—” I started, then ceased speaking as a most peculiar expression crossed the guard’s face. Certain his immediate intent was my end, I squinted my eyes shut so I wouldn’t have to witness my own death.

Not a half second passed when I felt myself released.

“Go on with you then.”

I dared to open one eye. Both guards were back in their original positions, their faces masked in an unnatural serenity. The gate behind them opened slightly. I dared not question my good fortune, but ran to the gate, squeezed through, and found myself on a drawbridge. Midway across two more guards stood at attention. Inwardly, I groaned.

With halting steps I approached them, not at all surprised this time when their swords crossed. They were easily a head taller than me and arrayed in suits of armor. I wondered what threat they could possibly see in a slip of a girl like me.

I chose my words with care, this time choosing to mention my missing escort first. “Merry Anne said—” I’d hardly begun my sentence when they parted.

“Go on with you.” The tranquil expression on their faces perfectly matched that of the guards at the gate. Feeling strangely bold, I waved my hand in front of one’s face. He didn’t even blink.

More than a little bewildered, but understanding that Merry Anne’s name was key to my passage, I continued as before. A third set of guards waited at the bridge’s end.

“Merry Anne,” I called.

“Go on with you.”

I left the bridge then paused, studying the several paths leading to various locales on the grounds. Surely the wide lane straight ahead led to the castle itself. But as I sought information about the servants— not to mention a bite to eat— I figured the kitchens were likely the best place to start. Choosing one of the smaller trails, I hurried along. The temporary jolt the first set of guards had given me was quickly wearing off, extreme fatigue and hunger returning in its place. To take my mind off my lightheadedness, I thought of my sister and tried to imagine what she was like. Cecilia had been gone from home my entire life, and I could only hope that had been a blessing to her. If Merry Anne was right and Cecilia was different than my siblings, how great might be my joy at having someone to call family.

Tall, overgrown bushes lined the path, and I reached out, pushing a stray branch aside as I rounded a corner. A set of crossed swords stopped me, and I jumped back with a startled squeal.

Flustered, I struggled to catch my breath and collect my thoughts.

“My sister Cecilia—”
Wrong.
Once again my arms were pinned behind me, and I felt the prick of a sword at my throat. “Merry Anne—” I gasped.

“Go on with you.”

I stumbled away quickly, this time chanting “Merry Anne, Merry Anne,” with each uncertain step. Searching for my sister would have to wait. Clearly my missing escort was the difference between life and death. Twice more guards allowed me passage when I uttered her name.

Who might she be if the mere mention of her name caused soldiers to yield so easily? I shivered and pressed a hand to my dress, feeling the two remaining pearls beneath. She had seemed so
merry
during the few hours we’d spent together. But what if the loss of one of the pearls changed that?

At last I located the outbuildings and what I guessed to be the castle kitchens. My stomach was long past rumbling and now simply ached with hunger. I hoped to find a generous kitchen servant— or at least one who became such at hearing Merry Anne’s name— who might share with me some bread or other morsel. Certainly, with a castle full of people to cook for,
someone
must be awake by now. Heaven knew I’d risen early enough when preparing breakfast for my many brothers and sisters.

Remembering those times, I felt a sudden yearning for home. Truth be told, I hadn’t minded those early morning hours. I remembered the warmth radiating from the stove as Mother coaxed the fire to life, the way the chickens clustered around as I traded feed for eggs, and the smell of freshly baked bread. The mornings I cooked were always best, as I was the only one in my large family who’d figured out how to manage our temperamental oven and turn the bread part way through baking so it didn’t burn. At first this seemed to vex my mother, but she’d grudgingly given in to my methods— madness, my sisters called it, to be sticking my hands into the hot oven like that— and made me take over most of the baking. On days when I hadn’t, the marvelous smell of fresh loaves had always turned to the disappointing scent of burnt bread. So hungry and homesick was I, that I imagined that unpleasant, sooty smell here, wrinkling my nose involuntarily.

I spied what I imagined was the door to the castle kitchens, but before I came to it, the sounds of an argument reached my ears through an open window. I paused, unsure if I dared knock and interrupt.

“As if my normal work isn’t enough, now I’ve got
two
royal families to feed— and you’ve gone and burned all the buns!” This outburst was followed by a vicious crack, which I imagined was a wooden spoon or roller striking someone.

“I didn’t mean to, Maggie. I’ll make more, I’ll—”

“You’ll get out of my kitchen, is what you’ll do.”

I ducked, only just missing being struck by the top panel of the door as it was flung open. A second later the bottom half followed. Instinctively I crouched behind it. A young, harried-looking woman came tripping over the threshold, ducking to avoid the rolling pin swinging wildly behind her.

“Don’t you come round here no more,” the woman holding the roller yelled. “Ain’t got no use for them 'at says they can work but don’t. No use at all. Now get!” She tilted her head heavenward, as if looking to the sky for help. “No bread. Not a lick, and
two
families
, two
troops of guards to feed. Agh!” She made a clucking noise then retreated inside, returning a minute later, arms laden with the afore-mentioned burnt buns. “And take these with you,” she called to the young woman, who was still running, quite some distance away by now. The cook tossed several short loaves of blackened bread to the dirt.

“Now what am I to do? Magic some buns here?” The clatter of pots and pans echoed through the open window. “Sure hope the prince don’t object to porridge.”

I knew I wouldn’t object to it. In fact… I glanced at the blackened loaves lying in the dirt a few feet away. I was so hungry that even they looked good. Crawling forward, I gathered several then hurried across the clearing to a nearby orchard. Trees bent over under the weight of overripe fruit, and the ground was littered with fallen peaches. I stooped down, picking up two. A little further in, the trees grew larger, thick and full, abundant with apples that would soon be ripe. Feeling heady with the sweet scent and the food I’d so suddenly come into possession of, I found a nice, grassy spot, then sat behind a tree and bit into a peach, savoring the flavor as juice trickled down my chin. Before I’d finished the first bite, I took another, then broke open one of the little loaves.

I’d eaten plenty of burned bread in my life, and knew that no matter how burnt a loaf might appear on the outside, the inside might still be soft and tasty.

Steam rose from the loaf, and not caring how hot it was, I dug my fingers into the moist center. As I’d suspected, it was delicious. “Such waste,” I mumbled to myself between bites. There were any number of things the cook might have done with this to make it into a fine breakfast…

I froze mid-bite, looking at the loaves still nestled in my lap.
I
could make these into a fine breakfast. Turning around, I strained in the early morning light to see if the others remained on the ground outside the window. They did— an enormous pile of them— just waiting to be used.

I glanced at the juicy peaches covering the ground and hanging on the trees. I wondered if there was a barn nearby with cows where I might get fresh milk and cream. Trepidation filled me as I thought of facing the fierce cook with the rolling pin, but I also had confidence in my abilities to create something out of nothing— and I wasn’t dealing with nothing anymore. Compared to what we’d had the past few years on our farm, this was
plenty.

Carefully holding the loaves, I rose and made my way through the orchard toward the kitchens. I was halfway there when the door banged open again and the cook came out, a wire basket for collecting eggs in each hand.

Good. I’d use eggs, too. I waited until she’d stalked off in the opposite direction; then I ran to the kitchen. Without hesitation, I opened the door and went in, giving myself but a second to adjust to the dim light. I deposited the loaves on a long, butcher-block table and went outside to retrieve the rest of the bread. When it was all inside and brushed free of dirt, I found a bucket and hurried out to the orchard. It took only moments to fill the pail with peaches. I ran back to the kitchen, thinking of what I’d say to convince the cook to let me stay.

Either the chickens were kept on the other side of town, or the cook had simply run off, but I guessed at least a good hour passed without anyone darkening the doorway of the kitchen. I had ample time to slice the burnt crust from the bread, cube the soft insides, and to peel and quarter several peaches. These I mashed with the bread, mixing in a little nutmeg and cinnamon— oh, the spices that were to be found in this kitchen of plenty! Then I topped the concoction with oats and brown sugar.

I’d built up the fire first thing and left the door open to let in light and to let out the heat. With the first tray in the oven, I’d set to work on a second, when at last a shadow fell across the table. I stopped my work, gathered my courage, and turned to face the cook. Of course, it helped that I’d set the rolling pin beside me, well away from the door.

It was not she but a young boy, his scrawny arms weighed down under the pressure of two full pails.
Milk!
I could have kissed him but instead rushed to relieve him of his burden. “Oh, thank you,” I said. “It’ll be ever so much better with cream.”

“What’ll be better?” he asked, lifting his head and sniffing curiously. “Smells good in here.” He spoke as if surprised.

“That’s peach cobbler— of sorts,” I said. “And it
should
smell nice in here. This is a kitchen, after all.”

“Yeah, but…” His voice trailed off, and he looked at me, as if for the first time. “Who’re you?”

“Adrielle,” I said. “I’m the cook’s new assistant.” This was presuming much, but given the boy’s reaction to the cobbler’s aroma, I felt I had a fair chance of getting the position. “Do you have time to stay to help me skim the cream?”

He nodded his head up and down, then back and forth, flopping his overgrown hair in an amusing pattern. “Uh-uh. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. And you’re not supposed to be here.” With that he turned and ran out the door, hollering at the top of his lungs.

I was puzzled by his behavior, but also frightened, remembering the cook’s assault on her previous apprentice. Quickly I checked the cobbler in the oven then looked ruefully at the buckets of milk. The cream would have to wait. I was suddenly having a bad feeling about being caught in someone else’s kitchen. It went against grain to leave my task uncompleted and to leave a mess behind, but I could not ignore the premonition I felt. I shouldn’t be here, and I wasn’t sure what had possessed me— other than my own hunger and a serious lack of sleep— to attempt such a thing as cooking for royalty.

I peered out the open window to see if I might make my escape and was dismayed to see the cook sauntering along the path toward the kitchen. The full egg baskets swung jauntily, as did her hips and her whole person. In fact, she looked as my brothers had after a time in the barn with a jug or two of ale.

Her feet roamed unsteadily in a crooked pattern over the ground. More than once a basket tipped, dumping some of its precious contents so that the eggs shattered on the ground.

“Such waste,” I muttered again. Had she never gone hungry before? And if not, didn’t she realize there were others who
did
and could use the excess I saw everywhere?

Though obviously not in her best form, the cook came nearer, and I retreated into the kitchen. There was only the one door— I was trapped. Unless… I whirled around, searching for a place to hide. The long, high table offered no protection; the sacks of flour, barley, and beans were scattered haphazardly around the room and were not tall enough to hide even a small child. A broom, mop and bucket stood in the far corner near the fireplace, scant cover from anything— especially an angry, drunk cook.