John Saturnall's Feast (48 page)

“
Those Tarts and Pies that followed, of the Roasted Meats and Poached Fishes . . .
”

From
The Book of John Saturnall
:
A Feast for the Union
of
Two Houses
once sundered and at last rejoined, being the
Fremantles
and
Callocks
, served in the Year of Our Kingdom's Restoration

nly those with long Memories will now recall the Union of Piers Callock, Lord of Forham and Artois, to Lady Lucretia Fremantle, in the first Year of the Reign of our second King Charles. Fewer still recall the last Lord of Forham himself. Yet he is daily commemorated in our Speech. When we adjudge a Matter as a heaped-up Extravagance, or a useless Complication over which much Energy is expended to little Purpose or Pleasure, we term it a ‘Callock's Subtlety’, for that was the Device I caused to be made for that Gentleman's Wedding Feast.

Composed of Paste and glued with Tragacanth, the Theme of this Device was an heroic Feat known as ‘Callock's Leap’. A Goat did play the Part of the Lord of Forham's Horse and quaking Puddings and quivering Jellies signalled the Terror that the late Lord of the Vale of Buckland instilled in his Foes. A marchpane Flintlock fired a Forcemeat Ball. A capacious Purse sewn together from the Ears of Pigs and stuffed with Spiced Cabbage resembled, as some remarked at the Time, a great Buttock. It was punctured by a Dagger carved from a Parsnip. Around it was the Lord of Forham's famous War Cry inscribed: ‘For God and Queen Mary’.

Of those Tarts and Pies that followed, of the Roasted Meats and Poached Fishes, the Forcemeats piled high and the Kickshaws in the Form of Jewels and Trinkets to catch a Lady's Eye, of these I may say Nothing. At their Service I was already far away . . .

H
E
WAS RUNNING
,
HEART
thudding, feet pounding over the East Garden's frosty lawn, past the old glass-house and the back of the dairy, jumping over the low hedges and pushing through the high ones. Approaching the new side-gate, he kept an eye out for old Motte. But it was too early for the ancient gardener. It was too early for anyone except Will Callock.

The sun had yet to climb above the horizon. Frost rimed the grass. Will breathed and felt the crisp cold air sting his nostrils. No one was up except him. No one in the whole wide world. He looked along the East Garden wall and up the path to the chapel. The tower rose before him. Suddenly Will shivered.

He had descended to the crypt that summer, following the coffin that held the body of his father. The corpse had smelt like the man but stronger, the stink of stale liquor seeping out between the cedar-wood planks. Even on this bright winter day, the memory clawed at him. One day, he had thought, he too would have to lie among the cobwebs and tombs. For weeks afterwards he had woken in the night, soaked in sweat and beset by terrors. Then his mother had stroked his thick black hair.

‘You miss him, William. Of course you do . . .’

But he did not. His father had spent most of his time at Court. He had returned only to drink and shout. And once to hit Will's mother. Now the man was dead and his mother spent her days looking through papers with Mister Martin and Master Elsterstreet. The thought of the one-handed steward reminded Will of his partner in this morning's escapade.

‘Meet me in the yard at dawn,’ Bonnie Elsterstreet had told him last night. Now he looked down towards the deserted space, wondering if her mother had caught her. Bonnie's mother was famed throughout the Manor for knowing everything that took place within its walls, from old Mrs Pole breaking wind to Will himself breaking Master Parfitt's best china mould or throwing stones at the ancient grave beside the carp ponds with Bonnie . . .

There she was. Skirts pulled up above her knees, hair streaming out behind her like a knight's standard, a girl of ten sped past the stables and across the inner yard. Disdaining the gate, she wriggled through a crack in the wall.

A minute later they were face to face. Bonnie weighed a stone in her hand and glanced across at the old well. It had been dug for the King, old Motte had told him once. The King before this one. Now, like the coach house and stables and most of the rest of the Manor according to Mister Martin, it was falling to pieces.

‘Reckon you can hit that?’ Bonnie challenged him.

They were the same age almost to the day. Conceived on the same night, Bonnie had confided to Will. She had heard their mothers talking. Now she pulled back her arm and let fly, her stone speeding in a fast flat arc to clatter into the well's tumbledown walls. She turned in triumph.

‘Ha!’

Will threw and missed. Then missed again. He could wrestle her, he thought. His arms had thickened over the past year. But if he won she would sulk. And if he lost . . . The taunts of his friends among the kitchen boys did not bear thinking about. They both took aim again. Once again, Bonnie hit. Once again, Will missed. Perhaps he was throwing the wrong stones? He scoured the ground for better ones. Then a man's voice sounded.

‘You have to keep your elbow high.’

He stood behind Will, looking down at him. A curiously dressed man, thought Will. For although he wore a fine blue coat and long leather riding boots, in keeping with the fine roan horse that stood patiently by the gate, his headgear was an ancient and battered slouch hat. From beneath its confines, a mass of curly black hair flecked with grey tried to escape.

‘You have to throw flat,’ the man said. ‘Give your wrist a flick at the end.’

With that, the man picked up a stone, eyed the well and threw. The pebble hit with a satisfying crack. The man nodded to him.

‘Now you.’

Will raised his elbow and let fly. An instant later he heard the same crack. The man took off his hat and offered a bow.

‘And you are?’

‘Will Callock,’ said Will.

The man nodded gravely.

‘And I'm Bonnie Elsterstreet,’ said Bonnie, nudging Will.

‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Bonnie.’ He gave a little bow.

‘Why are you here then?’ asked Bonnie.

The man raised his eyebrows as if the girl's question only now occurred to him. ‘I had hoped for a meal,’ he answered at last.

Will watched him glance about. But not to the house. The man's gaze seemed drawn to the chapel and the tower that rose above it. His eyes scanned the high arched openings at the top. Then all three turned at the sound of a strident voice.

‘Bonnie! Master Callock! Come away! What are you doing out at this hour?’ A bustling woman advanced, an untied bonnet hanging from her hand. Will looked apprehensively at Bonnie. Mrs Elsterstreet's scoldings were not to be taken lightly. But as the woman drew nearer, the man turned to face her. To Will's surprise, Bonnie's mother stopped dead in her tracks. At first it seemed that she might have had a seizure so sudden was her halt. But then an incredulous expression crept over her face.

‘John?’

The man offered an apologetic smile.

‘Gemma, forgive me. I would have sent word . . .’

But the woman waved his explanation away. Walking up to the man, she gripped him by the arms. Then, to Bonnie and Will's disgust, they embraced.

‘Come,’ she said, releasing him. ‘Philip is up at the house.’

Bonnie's mother seemed to have tears in her eyes.

‘Will he see me?’ the man called John asked.

‘Will he see you? How foolish to ask!’

‘And her ladyship?’

‘We served the feast as you ordered,’ Philip said, the look of amazement not quite faded from his face. He and John sat in the winter parlour. ‘Even the pig's ears.’

Gemma shook her head. ‘Thank the Lord that Master Piers was too deep in his cups to comprehend. Not to mention that, that monstrosity.’

‘A true Callock's Subtlety,’ said Philip, grinning at the memory and fingering the silver chain around his neck. ‘The very first. What a creation that was. Took Simeon and me the best part of a week. Then, when you left . . .’

‘Forgive me,’ John said abruptly. He reached across to clasp Philip's good hand. ‘I could not stay.’

Philip shrugged as if John's departure belonged to an age too distant to recall. ‘All we heard of you was from the news-sheets. The King had tried to engage your services and you had refused. You had sailed for the Barbary Coast. You had travelled among the Turks. The Bishops were calling you a heretic. Then you had joined the Court in France . . .’

John smiled. ‘They were restless years.’

‘Lucrative ones too, so I heard,’ Gemma said approvingly. ‘Old Josh said you'd taken the title to half the land around Flitwick without setting eyes on it. And bought him a house in Soughton too. Him and his mule.’

‘Not that he's slept a night in it,’ John said. ‘The land's further up from Flitwick. Good for nothing but chestnut trees.’

They walked down to the kitchens. A tall figure standing at the copper turned at John's greeting then dropped the ladle he was holding.

‘You have remained constant in your talents, Simeon,’ John said with a smile. He bent to retrieve the implement and handed it back. ‘How is the porridge this morning, Master Cook?’

‘Master Saturnall?’ Simeon exclaimed. Then he turned to the nearest kitchen boy. ‘A bowl! A bowl for Master Saturnall.’

The name brought them running. Mister Bunce gripped his arms and asked ifhe was truly returned. Mister Stone greeted John from the scullery. Asking after Mrs Gardiner, he was told she had passed away two years earlier. Mister Pouncey had followed a scant week later. Adam Lockyer had married Ginny and now ran the Estate.

‘What's left of it,’ Philip told John grimly when they sat down together. ‘Piers seems to have bequeathed most of it to his vintner.’

Alf had taken orders and was priest at Callock Marwood while Peter Pears supervised the old orchards and Hesekey was Clerk of the Yard. The faces swirled before John, old and new jumbled together. As the breakfast service got under way, the familiar noise of the kitchen surged around him. He took his bowl into Firsts and sat with Mister Bunce whose boys sat in tongue-tied silence around them. As he scooped the last of the porridge from his dish he saw that every cook and under-cook was watching.

‘A fine dish,’ he pronounced. ‘A dish any cook would be proud to serve.’

Smiles broke out. Then, as they turned back to their tasks, John saw Gemma waiting in the doorway.

‘Her ladyship will see you.’

The greasy rouge on her lips smelled of pig fat. The heavy scent she wore filled his nostrils. She took hold of him and pushed him back against the wall. He felt her body's heat through her dress. The musky perfume seemed to grow heavier and sweeter. Then his anger was submerged in desire. The same desire he had felt for the whore in the barn. Her hands pulled at his clothes as he grasped her skirts. She urged him on as he closed with her. She seemed to welcome his rough embraces. Then her limbs were battling his own in a wordless struggle.