Текст книги "Keturah and Lord Death"

Автор книги: Martine Leavitt

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

XIII

The king and the fair with its trappings

and delights; the cooking contest,

what I ask of the king.

The day of the fair began with drums.

Drums beat in the village as traveling merchants from throughout the south of Angleland came to set up their booths and show their wares. Drums answered from a distance as the royal party came closer. The king was coming.

My friends came to my house early to wash their hair and don freshly washed frocks. They braided flowers into their hair. Grandmother was glad of heart and sang little songs as they made ready.

I did the chores slowly. I scrubbed and polished the pots as if it were the only important work in the world. While making the beds, I stopped to smell the scent of Grandmother on the quilt. I dusted the dear rocker and swept the familiar floor. I touched the life I had known and, as I now understood it, the life I loved. This I felt in my heart: tomorrow I would not be what I was today.

We all lined the streets to wait for the king and his entourage. At last, as morning became noon, the king rode into the village while heralds blew their horns and were answered by flutes.

The king came first, and at his right was the royal messenger, Duke Morland, who had told us of the king’s intentions. At the king’s other side was Lord Temsland. The astonishment upon his face was equal to the fury on the face of the duke. Mixed with the duke’s anger was envy—it now appeared that when he and his cohorts had persuaded the king to banish Temsland to this corner of the kingdom, they had inadvertently rewarded him. The sun shone on the bay and the cottages dotted the hillside like flowers, and even the forest looked benign in the golden sunshine.

And then the bell began to ring and our hearts rose to see Lord Temsland’ s joy as he passed a hand over his eyes. John Temsland and his mother rode to greet the party and then joined it. As they passed us, John leaned over to hand me a red rose. The girls around me tittered and offered me quick curtseys when I looked at them. Truly I was safe, just as Beatrice had said. I smiled at the girls and smelled my rose.

We all cheered and showered the royal party with flower petals. The horses’ hooves made a merry sound upon the new cobblestone road.

The lords who had come to gloat looked everywhere in dismay. Their countenances soured as they gazed upon our whitewashed cottages and the flowers that decorated every doorstep and pathway and gaily painted window box. They scowled at our cobblestone road and square, and stared morosely at our new pier and the gleaming bell in the church tower. They would not look into the faces of the people, so like flowers themselves in their bright clothes.

Tailor’s children were brightest and prettiest of all.

The king and queen, on the other hand, beamed at our reception. Village girls walked before them, swirling long ribbons above their heads, and boys beat upon little tambourines. The king and his party slowed down when they came to the row of booths set up for the fair. Merchants bowed low as the king and queen passed.

Once they had passed they filed to the church, and Parson Tom welcomed them and all of us who had followed to the stairs of the chapel. Lord Temsland gave a speech.

“It is good to be home!” he announced with great good cheer. “If only I could tell you how very good it is to be home,” he said, winking at us.

And then he became more sober. “And home it is indeed, I have learned. I have learned something else—that my son is ready to take on many of the responsibilities of a manored lord, and may well perform them better than I.”

At this, the people laughed and clapped, and John blushed to be praised. Lord Temsland, too, flushed at the enthusiasm of everyone’s agreement.

He continued, “I have learned that by opening the coffers, one obtains other treasures, and that...” He paused and looked about him. “Well, enough of speeches. Surely it is time for the fair to begin!”

This time the cheering was deafening.

Parson Tom raised his hand. “God bless this fair,” he pronounced then. “Let the fair begin.”

Someone began to play a pipe, and a few sang together.

I heard the king talking to Lord Temsland as a friend talks with another.

“Tomorrow we will hunt the great hart,” Lord Temsland said to the king. “He has evaded me for many years now, and has grown into a noble animal. He is as intelligent as he is large, helping other deer escape from traps, leading them to our haystacks when it was bitterly cold last winter. My arrows have not been able to find him, but surely yours will, Your Majesty.”

The king smiled and looked with longing toward the forest. “There is nothing I like more than a challenging hunt,” he said.

John and I exchanged a look.

“The hart cannot be caught, Father,” John said. “He is enchanted, perhaps. It would be better if we sought out a more likely target.”

The king frowned. “No beast escapes my arrow, once my heart is in it,” he said.

“Of course not!” Lord Temsland said, and then they both laughed, and the king put his hand on Lord Temsland s shoulder.

I watched Parson Tom slump in his chair and promptly go to sleep. His goiter was larger than usual. One day soon he would sleep and not awake, his goiter having sucked the life out of him.

But I did not want to see such things today. I wanted the noise and music and laughter of the fair, and so I took Grandmother’s hand and plunged into the middle of it.

The morning began with a boulder pull. Everyone predicted that it would be Simon Langley or Barnaby Buttercross who would pull the boulder the farthest. Hadn’t they won, one of them, every year for seven years? But weren’t we all surprised when Stephen Little won the day. He lived in the rockiest part of the parish and had become good at taking rocks out of his poor soil. Lord Temsland was so pleased at the turn of events that he promised Stephen the right to clear another half-acre of forestland that bordered his portion.

When the boulder pull was ended, everyone went to see the booths of vegetables and goods. There were cabbages and rhubarb, corn, leeks and cucumbers, beans and garlic, and white meats of milk and cheeses. There were gooseberries and rye and wheat breads, baked and warm, golden butters in fancy molds, and bunches of picked flowers tied with ribbon. Martha Hornsby sold her famous jams and syrups, and Lord Temsland gave her a great gold coin for one bottle. This made her cry, for all her life she had longed to have a real gold coin to bite of an evening.

A number of youths entered the eating contest, and a great crowd gathered round and bet on who would be able to eat the most currant buns. Jeremy Smith ate until he was sick. Richard Walters had to stop at twenty, and then spent the better part of an hour lying on the village lawn, moaning. Michael Red ate thirty-three buns and stopped, saying that it was a lucky number and that it was the first time in his life he had been full. Michael’s wife was very proud of him and wove his first-place blue ribbon into her hair.

The young lads were stoic when they all lost in archery to Barty Lumberjon. They knew he wouldn’t let them forget his victory until next year’s fair, but freedom from enforced humility came when Adam Wiltweather beat Barty in the arm-wrestling competition. Adam was a quiet lad who would let others win at times and declare he had done his best.

I walked Grandmother around the booths. We touched woolens and silks, tasted strange foods, smelled exotic spices. We saw a man juggle fiery torches, then raw eggs. Grandmother clapped with happiness to see a man who could tie himself into a knot. The villagers proudly showed their calves and bulls and their lambs and ewes and their turkeys and roosters and hogs. Children showed their prize rabbits and donkeys. Grandmother and I laughed and clapped, and I marveled to think it possible that I might be lady over all my people.

Then came the judging of fruits and vegetables. Ben Marshall won, of course, for melons and pumpkins and cabbages and turnips and leeks. The other fruit and vegetable ribbons were shared, one per person, and there was some debate over whether the winners’ produce was truly better than Ben Marshall’s. Biddy Sodwell’s strawberries were bigger, but weren’t Ben’s sweeter? Sam Baxter’s lettuces were larger, but weren’t Ben’s greener and crisper? Still, Ben was happy, and announced over raised mugs that he would marry Best Cook that very night while still in the glow of his triumph.

Soor Lily’s great baby son won the wrestling contest and gave the ribbon to his mother. Soor Lily herself did not enter any contest but sold many bottles of her “tonic,” which cured everything from warts to melancholy. A man who had several warts on his nose drank an entire bottle, and within minutes every wart fell off. He was so happy he proposed to Soor Lily, and was immediately chased out of town by three of her sons.

Goody Thompson won a contest by guessing the correct number of beans in ajar and got a beautiful new teapot for her prize. She carried her baby as she walked about the fair; his cheeks were growing fat and rosy.

Gretta won a blue ribbon for some exquisite embroidery, but it was well known that her most important contribution was being worn by Lady Temsland, who was every bit as gorgeously arrayed as the queen.

There was one surprise in the textiles category. Master Tailor displayed a beautiful gown of lavender silk and won hands down, of course. As soon as he had been presented the ribbon, he gave the gown to Gretta. “ ‘Tis a wedding gown,” he said. “And if I have any eye at all, it will fit you perfectly.”

She held it up in a rapture, then looked at him sternly. “You must promise never to boss me.”

Tailor smiled. “And if I tried?”

“Why, I would love you anyway,” she said, smiling.

They embraced, and we all clapped to see it, none more loudly than Tailor’s children.

Choirmaster’s choir sang for the king and queen while they ate a dinner that sampled all the finest foods of the fair, including Cook’s blue-ribbon loaves. The great lords who had accompanied the king now were friendly to Lord Temsland and cold to Duke Morland, who sat alone and glum, apart from the others. Apparently they had decided it was the duke who had exaggerated.

Now all that was left was the judging of Best Cook. I had entered my pie for the sake of Tobias, who had boasted that the queen would eat a dish made of his lemons. There seemed no need now to see the judging, but my friends took me by the hands and pulled me to the cookery tent. Along the way, we skipped and sang, bartered with the merchants, and cooed over babies.

Under the tent, the dignified panel of judges still tasted and conferred. They had placed a blue ribbon on Padmoh s teacake and a red on her bean soup. And so it was in every category except pies—the judges had yet to decide that category. My heart lifted at the sight of all Padmoh s ribbons. Of course she would win. Ben Marshall had eyes only for the judges.

Finally, one judge tasted my lemon pie. He moaned and sighed with pleasure.

Then the other judges tasted, and kept tasting more and more until the pie was half gone.

And then they placed a blue ribbon on the plate.

The head judge announced, “This one pie is so exquisite, so unusual, that we must declare Miss Keturah Reeve the Best Cook of the fair!”

My friends cheered and laughed, and the crowd gathered round to congratulate me. “It seems unfair that one pie should win me Best Cook when Padmoh won so many ribbons,” I said. But my protest was taken for false modesty, and the judges begged for my lemon pie recipe.

Though Ben Marshall could not get close to me, he smiled and tried to catch my eye. “There is my bride,” he said to some of those around him, and they raised a glass to his good fortune. I felt sick inside that I had given him false hope, and I took no joy in Padmoh s sad countenance.

Just as Ben was about to leap toward me out of the crowd, a horn sounded. Its call was long and sweet, a call to come to the square. The crowd moved as one in that direction, I in the middle. I saw that Ben fell farther back.

Again the horn sounded. Musicians began to play as we gathered in the square, and even the merchants and entertainers came away from their booths and stages and gathered to listen.

John Temsland caught me away from the crowd. “We have both won,” he said.

“As well you should,” I said. “You have done well. It made me glad to witness Duke Morland’s unhappiness at not seeing your father humiliated.”

“The king said I should have my wish granted,” John said. “All is going as I planned.”

“And what will you ask?”

“I asked him to give you whatever you would ask,” said John. “It is for you to decide, Keturah. Father knows my heart. Ask to be made Lady Keturah Reeve, and before the hour is up, I will marry you.”

And then he slipped away, and though the crowd closed in around me, I was alone with secret wonder.

The king was in full regalia and wore a crown of gold and rubies. The queen also was dressed in purple velvets and ermine, and wore a coronet of silver and diamonds. She was the only one not looking upon us. She was eating something, and only after several bites did I see it was a piece of my lemon pie.

“Come with us, closer to the king,” Beatrice said, taking my hand. She was still dressed as a boy from singing in the choir. We pushed through the people to the front of the gathering.

There was a call of trumpets, and the musicians ceased to play and the people listened.

“I thank the people of Tide-by-Rood and Marshall for welcoming me to their beautiful lands,” said the king.

The people cheered and whistled and threw their hats into the air.

“I have promised a shoe full of gold to the one who most delighted me at the fair. In the end, Lord Temsland had his choice, and his lady hers. I have my choice, and my queen hers. And so we will divide the gold four ways.

“First, Lord Temsland’s choice. To the lead soprano of the choir, a quarter of a shoe of gold. Come forward, soprano.”

Beatrice as Bill glanced nervously at us and then stepped forward.

I could not hear what she said, but Gretta and Choirmaster gasped when she did not bow but instead curtseyed. The king, however, only laughed, and Bill was invited to remove his cap and let his long braids fall. The crowd murmured and one could hear stifled laughter. At first Lord Temsland seemed somewhat flustered, but his wife’s gentle amusement calmed him, and he was further calmed to see that the king was not disturbed by the disguise.

“Well, the bishop of Great Town has women in his choir,” the king said. Turning then to Lord Temsland, he added, “And if you wish to be in style, you must not put your women in disguise.”

“Your Majesty,” Beatrice said, “if I may, it was my own deception. I beg your forgiveness.”

Gently the king said, “How can I give you that? It would be like offering forgiveness to an angel. But I can give you this.” He handed her a small velvet purse that jangled with gold. “And what would you have for your wish granted?” he asked.

“Your Majesty, only that I might share your gift with someone,” she said.

“And who would that be?”

Beatrice fetched Choirmaster by the hand and led him before the king. “Your Majesty, here is the man who makes me sing, for his music is the music of angels. And—and we are to be married.”

The crowd murmured, oohed, and tittered with surprise.

Choirmaster dabbed his nose with a sparkling white handkerchief.

“I assume this match is also according to your wishes, Choirmaster?” the king said.

“Your Majesty, it is,” he said, bowing deeply before the king. He did not let go of Beatrice’s hand.

“You must write an Easter mass for me next year,” the king said, “for which I will pay you in gold.”

“It has always been my deepest desire,” Choirmaster said, smiling—the broadest smile I had ever seen upon him.

The couple backed away, and the king called, “Now the Tailor.” Tailor came forward and I saw that he was wearing not even one item of orange clothing.

“You have done as fine a work as any of the royal tailors. You are Lady Temsland’s choice,” said the king. “Besides your gold, what is the reward that you would wish for?”

“To marry the woman who sewed most of the finery you speak of, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Ah. And who would that be?”

Tailor gestured to Gretta, who came forward boldly and curtseyed.

“Is this your wish, young maid?” the king asked.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “here is an imperfect man, the only one in the world perfect enough for me.”

“Then it will be. And each year you will both come to my palace and sew my daughter a new Easter gown. For that I will pay you in gold.”

“It has been my greatest wish,” said Tailor, bowing with great dignity.

The villagers cheered, for there was nothing they liked more than weddings. The king raised his hand for silence.

“Keturah Reeve,” he called. “Come forward.”

I came forward and curtseyed.

“The queen has chosen your pie as the most wondrous thing of the fair,” said the king. “You too will have a quarter of the shoe of gold.”

He held it up to drop it into my hand, but I curtseyed again. “Please, I would ask that my share be divided among the poor of the village, Your Majesty,” I said, for I knew that tomorrow I would not need money, that tomorrow I would not be what I was today.

The king turned and said a few words to Lord Temsland and John, and I turned to join the crowd.

“Wait, Keturah Reeve,” said the king. “The gold will be distributed as you requested. But there is the matter of your wish granted.”

I returned to my place before him.

John Temsland, beside the king, smiled and nodded at me, encouraging me. There he stood, so young and beautiful and strong, and he loved me. His mother and father, too, smiled gently, even lovingly, upon me.

I could ask now to be made a lady, and John would marry me. Oh, the good I could do for my people as the future Lady Temsland!

I realized that the crowd had been waiting for my answer. I waited too—waited for the words that would come to me as they always did around the common fire, waited for the words that would begin this new story of me... The villagers seemed puzzled by my silence, as if they all knew precisely what they would ask for me if it were up to them to choose. No one appeared more puzzled than John.

I knew I must speak, and I must speak now.

“Your Majesty,” I said. He was a dear lad, John Temsland, so handsome, with hair the color of ripe wheat and eyes clear as a baby’s, who loved me...

“Speak, Keturah,” John said.

I felt the evening sunshine upon me—but what was the joy of sunshine if there were no night? Wasn’t the sunset the sweetest time of day? Could I ask for only day and never dark?

And what of my friends? Could I ask for them ever to be at my side? Already I felt them moving past me, faster and faster, while I stayed still. And oh, the peace in that stillness.

What of riches and gold? What of lands and honors? But when I thought of these things there was a silence inside me—a hollowness. It fit ill, like the wrong ending to a good story.

Everyone was happy—old and young, rich and poor, male and female. But I could not touch their happiness, could not hold it. It was a dream and not real. What was real was the sense that in this life I had never quite been satisfied, had never long been at peace, had never loved or been fully loved as I longed to be. I could not name what was in me then, but I knew that the cure was not anywhere around me—not in Grandmother’s and my friends’ smiling faces, not in our shining little village, nor yet in any of the booths of the fair.

No, all I could think to ask for was my one true love, and this not even a king could give me. It was in that moment that everything became clear. “Your Majesty, I ask”—there was an audible intake of breath from the crowd—”I ask that the great hart and his mate no longer be hunted.”

The king looked at me, astonished, and then at John. I did not look at John. I would not. I could not. Behind me the people were murmuring among themselves.

“Very well,” the king said at last. “It is a strange thing you have asked, but you shall have it. Lord Temsland, John, do you swear?”

“We swear,” John said after a brief silence, and in his voice was an accusation, and great pain.

“It is done,” said Lord Temsland, and surely there was a hint of relief in his voice.

The king motioned for me to come closer and, when I did, said quietly so that few else could hear, “It is an unusual request, Keturah, from an unusual subject. Tell me what you say of this. As I traveled past Great Town, I saw villages emptied, fields unharvested, the grain stalks bent and rotting. I saw people hiding in holes like animals, and cattle dead by the roadside, and everywhere the smell of plague. But here, in Tide-by-Rood and Marshall, is health and marrow and wholesomeness. It is my understanding that it is because of you that this is so.”

“No, Your Majesty, but because of one greater than I, and, forgive me, greater even than you.”

He studied me then, a long moment, and nodded solemnly. “Tell him—tell him I have learned something. And thank him—or I suppose I shall myself one day.”

The music began again at a nod from the king, and the villagers dispersed to their fairing. And I—I guessed that the shadows of the forest were beginning to touch my cottage, and I walked toward it.

Gretta and Beatrice saw me leaving and broke away from their men and the friends and family who had gathered to congratulate them. Gretta grabbed my shoulders.

“Keturah!” she said. “Where are you going?”

“Home. I am tired.”

Beatrice leaned her head against my shoulder. “Please don’t leave, Keturah. You are so pale, you frighten me.”

“Do not fret,” I said, stroking Beatrice’s hair. “Not today.”

“Keturah,” Gretta said, “promise us that you won’t go into the forest.”

“You have weddings to plan,” I said. “Come, I will not be gone so long.”

Then their families and lovers came laughing to steal them away, not understanding why Gretta had begun to weep, and I continued on.