Suzanne Robinson

For me, part of the magic of the past lies in discovering the small, everyday details of living in another time. I believe that these details bring to life a world we can never visit except in our imaginations. However, because knowledge is passed on from one generation to the next, we have a legacy from those who lived long ago. Part of that legacy is food preparation, which has until recently been the special domain of women.

Cooking is an immediate and compelling example of our legacy from the past, one that holds a unique significance for women. As a special gift to my readers, I’ve included several recipes related to the story of
Lord of Enchantment
. This is my way of trying to bring to you some of the magic I felt upon writing the story of Pen and Morgan.

Please savor the enchantment with me.

Suzanne Robinson

I would like to acknowledge my indebtedness to two works that have made writing
Lord of Enchantment
an experience in delightful discovery. The first is a book of advice and instruction called
The English Housewife
by Gervase Markham (1568?–1637) and edited by Michael R. Best. This wonderful book covers everything from the virtues of a good housewife to brewing ale. The second is a beautifully illustrated volume by Maggie Black,
The Medieval Cookbook
, which contains both original and modernized recipes as well as informative discussions of historical ingredients and practices. I highly recommend both to any reader interested in the history of cooking and housewifery.

TANSY

A
n egg dish mid-way between an omelette and a pancake
.

… for making the best tansy, you shall take a certain number of eggs, according to the bigness of your frying pan, and break them into a dish, abating ever the white of every third egg; then with a spoon you shall cleanse away the little white chicken knots which stick unto the yolks; then with a little cream beat them exceedingly together; then take of green wheat blades, violet leaves, strawberry leaves, spinach, and succory, of each a like quantity, and a few walnut tree buds; chop and beat all these very well, and then strain out the juice, and mixing it with a little more cream, put it to the eggs, and stir all well together; then put in a few crumbs of bread, fine grated bread, cinnamon, nutmeg and salt, then put some sweet butter into the frying pan, and so soon as it is dissolved or melted, put in the tansy, and fry it brown without burning, and with a dish turn it in the pan as occasion shall serve; then serve it up, having strewed good store of sugar upon it, for to put in sugar before will make it heavy. Some use to put of the herb tansy into it, but the walnut tree buds do give the better taste or relish; and therefore when you please for to use the one, do not use the other.

Pen Fairfax leaned out over the battlements of Highcliffe Castle and felt her skin prickle as if she wore a hair shirt next to her flesh. She had no cause to feel so skittish, and yet she’d left her tansy, bread, and ale to climb to the top of the Saint’s Tower and scour the horizon.

Agitation tingled in her bones as she looked out at the sea. League after league of azure met her gaze, topped by a sky without clouds and riffled by a teasing breeze that burned her cheeks crimson. The glare of the sun, the sea’s moisture, and the icy breeze combined to turn the air almost silver. Far below the steep cliffs upon which the tower sat, the surf foamed and crashed into the jagged black giant’s teeth that were all the island could claim as a beach.

Again, the flesh on the backs of her arms prickled. Shading her eyes with one hand, Pen studied the sea. She didn’t turn when Nany Boggs labored up the last stair and puffed her way across the tower roof carrying a cup of ale. Nany’s generous chest heaved under the strain of hauling her bulk up the winding staircase. Teetering to a halt, she steadied her precious cargo and took a long sip. Then she wiped her face with her apron and tucked a strand of silver hair beneath her cap.

Before Nany could scold, Pen lifted a hand and pointed out to sea. “There’s going to be a storm.”

Nany Boggs looked up at the unblemished sky, at the calm sea, at Pen.

“Prithee, how do you know it?”

“We’ll have to get the grain inside, and the hay, and the animals. No threshing this morn.”

Pen avoided her old nurse’s stare. She breathed in the fragrance of crisp sea air. The breeze caught a strand of her hair and played with it as she surveyed the blue plain of water that stretched from the island to the horizon. She shivered abruptly and rubbed her upper arms.

“Aha!”

Pen tossed her head and scowled at Nany, but the nurse only planted a fist on her hip and glared back at her.

“I knew it,” Nany said. “I saw you go still in the hall and bolt like a frightened hedgehog. Left that tansy dish I made specially for you, you did. You’re going all fantastical again, aren’t you? Listening to spirits and fell creatures of magic.”

Pen sighed. “Not spirits and creatures—”

“Hearken you to me, Penelope Grace Fairfax. If you rush about like a demented harpy, your secret will be out and we’re all o’rthrown.”

Pen took a deep breath of cold air, spread her arms wide, and lifted her face to the sun. “God’s patience, Nany, I but warned of a storm.”

“Under a cloudless sky, mistress.”

“You’re always complaining that I abandon sense too often by taking in unfortunates, yet when I give cautious warnings and thought to the protection of those under my care, you complain of that as well.”

Never one to let logic impede her way, Nany drained
her cup and then shook a thick finger at Pen. “You’re going all fantastical again.”

Pen gave Nany pained smile and touched the end of her nurse’s red nose with the tip of her finger. Nany swiped at her hand, but Pen danced away from her grasp. She left the embrasure, but paused to glance out at the tranquil water.

As she gazed at the sea, her uneasiness grew. Needles of apprehension pricked her palms. Suddenly she recognized the feeling. She’d had it before, upon the approach of danger—danger of a particular and most menacing sort. If she was right, she would need ward herself as never before. She would have to prepare herself for calamity.

Nany was still muttering. “Not a cloud.”

Setting her jaw, Pen went to the old nurse and patted her shoulder as she headed for the stairs.

“There will be a storm,” she said calmly, “a storm nonpareil, with waves as high as towers and sideways rain and sleet. A storm of trouble and wonder, Nany. A storm of trouble and wonder.”

Out of sight of Penance Isle, a carrack chased a swift pinnace westward from the coast of England. On the prow of the carrack, Morgan St. John strained to keep sight of the pinnace while sailors shouted and scurried around him. He’d pursued the spy-priest Jean-Paul from England to Scotland and back again and wasn’t about to give up because of a few clouds.