John Saturnall's Feast

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John Saturnall’s Fea�

‘Gone,’ Philip said. ‘Scovell found the salt in a pocket-bag tied around his waist. Th e look on his face . . .’

Th e marquees defl ated and sank to the ground. Ambling horses were harnessed and saddled. Th e royal exit was as piecemeal as the entrance had been grand. When the last squadron of royal servants had trot-ted up the drive and disappeared through the gatehouse, John was summoned by Scovell. Entering the chamber, he saw a stout woman who carried at her waist a heavy ring of keys. She turned with a jangle.

‘Is that Susan Sandall’s boy?’John recognised Mrs Gardiner the housekeeper. He nodded.‘She sent him here, Mrs Gardiner,’ Scovell said from the hearth.John shifted awkwardly as the housekeeper’s eyes swept over

him.‘I can see her face in yours,’ Mrs Gardiner said approvingly. ‘A good

woman. And now her boy will cook for her ladyship’s wedding.’‘So we hope,’ said Scovell. Th e woman looked around the chamber.‘I haven’t set foot down here since that night. Do you recall it,

Master Scovell, how we drove that thieving magpie out? How long has it been?’

Magpie. John’s ears twitched.‘Eighteen years,’ Scovell answered shortly. He turned to a pan

dangling over the hearth.‘What a commotion!’ Mrs Gardiner continued. ‘Th e villain.’ She

eyed the connecting door as if she expected the villain, whoever he was, to burst through it. She seemed about to launch into another volley of exclamations when her gaze returned to John. Her shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘Susan Sandall’s son,’ she said in a curious tone, exam-ining John’s face. ‘Now you’re almost grown.’

‘I am seventeen years of age,’ John said as the silence lengthened.

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marquees deflated and sank to the ground. Ambling horses were harnessed and saddled. The royal exit was as piecemeal as the entrance had been grand. When the last squadron of royal servants had trotted up the

drive and disappeared through the gatehouse, John was summoned by Scovell. Entering the chamber, he saw a stout woman who carried at her waist a heavy ring of keys. She turned with a jangle.

‘Is that Susan Sandall’s boy?’ John recognised Mrs Gardiner the housekeeper. He nodded. ‘She sent him here, Mrs Gardiner,’ Scovell said from the hearth. John shifted awkwardly as the housekeeper’s eyes swept over him. ‘I can see her face in yours,’ Mrs Gardiner said approvingly. ‘A good

woman. And now her boy will cook for her ladyship’s wedding.’ ‘So we hope,’ said Scovell. The woman looked around the chamber. ‘I haven’t set foot down here since that night. Do you recall it,


Magpie. John’s ears twitched. ‘Eighteen years,’ Scovell answered shortly. He turned to a pan

dangling over the hearth. ‘What a commotion!’ Mrs Gardiner continued. ‘The villain.’ She



240


‘Gone,’ Philip said. ‘Scovell found the salt in a pocket-bag tied around his waist. Th e look on his face . . .’

Th e marquees defl ated and sank to the ground. Ambling horses were harnessed and saddled. Th e royal exit was as piecemeal as the entrance had been grand. When the last squadron of royal servants had trot-ted up the drive and disappeared through the gatehouse, John was summoned by Scovell. Entering the chamber, he saw a stout woman who carried at her waist a heavy ring of keys. She turned with a jangle.

‘Is that Susan Sandall’s boy?’John recognised Mrs Gardiner the housekeeper. He nodded.‘She sent him here, Mrs Gardiner,’ Scovell said from the hearth.John shifted awkwardly as the housekeeper’s eyes swept over

him.‘I can see her face in yours,’ Mrs Gardiner said approvingly. ‘A good

woman. And now her boy will cook for her ladyship’s wedding.’‘So we hope,’ said Scovell. Th e woman looked around the chamber.‘I haven’t set foot down here since that night. Do you recall it,


Magpie. John’s ears twitched.‘Eighteen years,’ Scovell answered shortly. He turned to a pan

dangling over the hearth.‘What a commotion!’ Mrs Gardiner continued. ‘Th e villain.’ She



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Quodling Apples with a sweet Cream

‘And now you’ll be cooking the feast for the one your ma deliv-ered.’ Mrs Gardiner paused and considered. ‘Just as soon as her lady-ship returns to her senses.’

John looked between the Master Cook and the housekeeper.‘Mrs Gardiner has a task for you,’ said Scovell.

‘No!’ shouted Lucretia.‘My lady, the Fremantle Covenant is no old wives’ tale,’ Mister

Pouncey explained patiently. ‘It was an oath sworn to God. Your own ancestor made the pact . . .’

‘I know the story well enough.’‘+ en your ladyship will appreciate the great peril into which she

places Buckland by her current, uh, reluctance.’‘To join myself to Piers Callock? + at is not reluctance. It is

disgust!’‘Your union is His Majesty’s wish.’‘It is my father’s tyranny!’‘He wishes only that the succession continue.’Sitting on the top step with a bowl of pottage beside her, Gemma

listened through the closed door as Mister Pouncey’s voice rose and fell. + e patient mumble had continued for an hour now. Pole’s voice followed, more strident. + at was a mistake, thought Gemma. Sure enough, a loud thud interrupted the woman’s voice. A moment later the door was W ung open.

‘Out!’ shouted Lucretia. ‘Out, both of you!’A red-faced Mister Pouncey hurried down the passage followed

by an a] ronted Pole. Gemma looked up hopefully. But the door slammed shut again.

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She had helped her mistress scrub o] the powder and rouge. She had peeled o] the beauty spot on her cheek. As she had lifted o] the heavy silk of the dress, her mistress had begun to cry, bitter sobs that came from deep inside her.

‘I will not!’ the young woman had burst out. ‘Never!’Gemma could not remember the last time she had seen Lucretia

cry. Now, contemplating the lukewarm bowl, she heard a rending noise sound behind the closed door. Sheets? Visions of a knotted rope dangling down into the garden passed before Gemma’s eyes. When the noise stopped, she rose and knocked softly.

‘Lucy?’‘Go away.’‘Lucy, it’s me. It’s Gemma.’She heard the scrape of a chair. + e door opened. A headless torso lay draped over the chest. A pair of legs hung

beside it. Another ripped body was slumped against the chest. Lady Whitelegs had been torn in two. Half of Lady Pimpernel W opped below her. Of Lady Silken-hair there remained only tatters and of Lady Pipkin not even that. But worse lay scattered over the W oor. + rough a haze of sawdust Gemma looked down on torn and crum-pled pages, each one covered with familiar handwriting.

‘Oh, Lucy!’Gemma put down the bowl and picked up a fragment.

Let me feed thee such Honey-sugared Creams

As cool the Quodling’s ’scaping Steam . . .

She knelt and began to gather up the pages. Glancing at the opened clothes chest she saw the folds of silvery-blue silk. At least the dress was unscathed.

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‘Mrs Gardiner bade me bring pottage,’ Gemma said when she was O nished.

‘Pour it in the chamber pot.’‘But, Lucy . . .’‘Tell them I have resumed my fast.’

‘We only exchange our freedoms, Lady Lucy,’ the Queen had murmured in her ear at the feast. ‘We only exchange our desires.’

At the King’s announcement, the woman’s hand had found her own under the table and Lucretia had found she could not reply. + e kitchen boy had stared at her. Hauled up from the kitchens to caper for the King. Or perhaps to witness her humiliation. Returned to her room she had imagined John Saturnall recounting her fate to the others in his subterranean domain. + ey mocked her down there, she knew. Pouncey and Pole’s embassy had only compounded her fury.

A terrible pleasure had gripped her as she ripped apart the dolls, and a worse one when she tore the pages from the book. Lucretia had thrown open her clothes chest and pulled out the dress. Taking up the silvery-blue silk, she readied herself to tear the O ne material . . .

‘+ e Covenant ties all our hands,’ Mister Pouncey had explained in the nasal mumble he reserved for the imparting of conO dences. ‘But Piers may inherit on your behalf, being a cousin but once removed . . .’

She had grown up with the story. + e oath sworn by her ancestor. She had never imagined it might bind her so closely.

‘You would need only to wed Lord Piers,’ the steward had assured her. ‘You would not be forced into . . . into intimacy.’

Until he had need of an heir, she thought grimly. + en the Queen’s words returned to her. We only exchange our desires . . . Was Piers so terrible, she forced herself to ponder, with his lank hair and trembling chin? Could he be worse than Lady Caroline’s rumoured lover, the

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cold-eyed Sir Philemon with his slashed and stitched face? She imag-ined Piers’s limbs entwined with her own, his clammy skin pressed against her, his stale-wine breath in her nostrils . . .

+ e thought turned her stomach. She watched Gemma gather the pages and take the pottage away. Left alone, Lucretia sat on the chair before her dressing table and looked out of the casement to the little banqueting house. Above its pointed roof, a white cloud was stretch-ing itself across the sky. She remembered these hours from her previ-ous fasts. Whole days of light-headed tedium.

+ at night a jagged stone seemed to roll in her belly. She slept badly and woke as the chapel bell rang for breakfast. + rough the day, the ache in the pit of her stomach sharpened. After supper, Gemma’s voice sounded outside the door.

‘Lucy!’ she hissed. ‘It’s me again.’‘What is it?’+ ere was a rustle of skirts. A second later, a small grey-brown slab

slid under the door.Lucretia recognised it from its annual appearance on the table in

the back parlour. On the day of her mother’s death. Maslin bread.+ e servants ate it all year round. She had always disdained it, of

course. Now the dark slab felt invitingly solid. + e yeasty tang teased her nostrils. Hot juices joined the churning rock in her belly.

‘I could get no better,’ Gemma continued through the door. ‘Pole was watching me. + ey were talking about you. Gardiner says if you don’t eat then your courses stop. You dry up inside and can’t bear children . . . Lucy?’

‘Mmmth.’Lucretia’s teeth mashed the fat grains. + e coarse gluey mass rolled

around on her tongue. She held a cloth to catch the crumbs and chewed as hard as she could. Lucretia thought it possible she had never tasted anything so delicious as maslin bread.

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Gemma smuggled out another block the next day but as she sank her teeth into the second heavy slab, Gemma hissed a warning.

‘Lucy! + ey’re coming!’Several sets of footsteps were advancing up the staircase. + en they

resounded along the passage. Lucretia chewed quickly but the key was scraping in the lock. She wrapped the remaining hunk in the cloth, dropped it to the W oor and nudged it under the bed. She wiped her mouth as the door swung open to reveal Mister Pouncey, Mrs Gardiner, Mister Fanshawe and Mrs Pole.

A new smell entered with them too. A rich mixture of braised meat and spices. + e aroma curled about the door and wove its way through the stu] y air. Lucretia felt the rock of her hunger stir. + en the source appeared. A youth clad in red livery stepped out from behind Pole. Strange to see a denizen of the Kitchen in the House, thought Lucretia, eyeing the tray and the steaming bowl.

‘Sir William has assigned you a cook,’ Mister Pouncey informed Lucretia, ‘in honour of your new vow. He will describe today’s dish for you.’

Her gaze rose to the bearer’s face.John glanced down.He had dreaded this moment since Scovell and Mrs Gardiner had

informed him of the steward’s order. He had been cheered out that morning by his fellow cooks, Peter Pears slapping him so hard on the back that he had almost spilt the broth.

‘Go on, John!’ Adam Lockyer had called after him. ‘How could Lady Lucy resist you?’

Her face wore a look of scorn mixed with boredom. Mister Pouncey, Mister Fanshawe and Mrs Pole waited.

‘+ is is a broth of lamb, your ladyship,’ John began. ‘It is made

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with O llets taken from the tenderest part of the neck. + e joints are simmered on the bone until the marrow can be removed and chopped into the liquor . . .’

If he looked sideways a little, he could see her reW ection in the pier glass at the far end of the chamber. Lucretia appeared unmoved as his description lurched on.

‘+ us the juices are reduced. Now, the seasonings . . .’He tried to imagine that he stood in the kitchen. He was explaining

the dish to Simeon or Heskey, or another of the kitchen boys. Not mumbling before a contemptuous Lucretia Fremantle. Gardiner and Pole nodded at his halting performance. + en, to his surprise, Lucretia spoke.

‘How fascinating.’She did not sound fascinated. But neither did she seem to mock.‘After the O nal seasoning, the liquor is strained,’ John continued.‘Really? How?’+ is time, John glanced at her.‘A colander is too coarse,’ he explained. ‘A horsehair sieve will clog.

We use a strainer fashioned from O ne wires.’Lucretia stood and peered into the bowl.‘You have spent the day making this broth?’ she said.‘Yes, your ladyship.’+ e young woman leaned into the rising steam and took an appre-

ciative sni] . + en, to John’s amazement, she took the bowl in her hands. She was going to drink, John realised, struggling to keep the exultation from his face. His task accomplished in a single day! He watched Lucretia turn then hook out something with her foot from under her bed, something that scraped the boards of the W oor. A bowl.

A chamber pot.In the next moment, John realised Lucretia’s intention. He took

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a step forward but she was too quick. With a single W uid gesture, the young woman upended the bowl, sending the broth falling in a dark brown arc. A dismayed John watched the steaming stream crash into the pot and splash the W oor about. A moment’s silence followed.

‘Filthy girl!’ exclaimed Pole.‘Miss Lucretia!’ Mister Fanshawe spluttered. ‘How could you!’A shocked John regarded his creation. Lucretia’s triumphant face

turned to Mister Pouncey.‘Did you think I would change my mind for a bowl of soup? Not a

drop will pass my lips. Tell my father that. Not a crumb.’It was left to John to pick up the pot. As he knelt amidst the pools

of broth, a scattering of crumbs led his gaze under the bed. + ere, among the shadows, he made out a shape. A small slab lay on the W oor. A slab part-wrapped in a cloth. As John’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he smiled to himself. A half-eaten hunk of maslin bread. So Lady Lucy’s fast had already ended. Had probably never begun. He rose to his feet.

‘Not a crumb?’ he murmured.Lucretia sti] ened. Two dots of colour grew in her cheeks.‘What’s that?’ asked Mister Pouncey’s nasal voice.He had only to announce his discovery. He had only to call out as

she had done . . . But as he drew breath to speak, Lucretia’s expression changed. Her haughty gaze faltered. A look John knew W ashed across her face. For an instant he was back with her in the Solar Gallery, the two of them united in the fear of discovery.

‘Well?’ the steward demanded.‘Nothing, Mister Pouncey, sir,’ John heard himself say. His exultant

mood had evaporated, replaced by a bad ing inhibition.‘Nothing?’

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‘I was thinking of another dish, sir. One more to her ladyship’s taste.’

‘Why?’ demanded Philip. ‘If she’s eating, she’s not fasting, is she? Why didn’t you tell them?’

‘Nothing in that for me,’ John answered airily. ‘Finding a bit of bread under a bed. Besides, they’d have known your Gemma brought it.’

He clapped Philip on the back in jocular fashion.‘If Lady Lucy’s O lling her belly,’ Phineas said, ‘she won’t touch what

you’re cooking.’‘+ at depends what I cook,’ John answered with a smile. ‘Doesn’t it?’But Lucretia did not eat the comO ts W avoured with sugared cream

which he presented the next day, nor the lemon possets with straw-berries which he took after that. Each day at the door, Pole inspected the tray. Each day John stood before her in the room, his eyes averted, the silence growing more oppressive between himself, the governess, the clerk and Lucretia while, on the tray he held before him, that day’s creation cooled or collapsed or congealed.

Lucretia herself gazed out of the window, or busied herself at her dressing table, or pretended enthusiasm for her sampler, working a jagged row of stitches. After an hour that felt like three, his arms aching and his stomach rumbling, the bell for the end of dinner released John to return to the kitchen.

‘Gruels and pottages,’ suggested Henry Palewick. ‘Master Scovell used to prepare them for her when she was a child. Not that she ate a spoonful.’

‘Frumenty,’ Alf pronounced authoritatively. ‘Or a sucket. Or broth. + at’s what my sis used to make.’

Poached collops of venison came and went untouched. A hash of O shes and a quaking pudding with raisins, honey and sa] ron were

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spurned. + e days succeeded one another. When Mrs Gardiner escorted John, he remembered her scrutiny in Scovell’s chamber, the talk of a ‘magpie’. But the quiet of the unfamiliar passages silenced his questions and more often now it was Fanshawe and Pole who marched him through the Great Hall and up the stairs to Lucretia’s chamber.

+ e governess and the clerk seemed fascinated by each other. While their greetings remained as formal as ever, John caught glances pass-ing behind his back. He glimpsed little smiles out of the corner of his eye. He heard their asides grow more elaborate. On the day Mrs Pole allowed a diminutive fringe to escape the severe scrape of her hair, Mister Fanshawe cleared his throat.

‘Mrs Pole. A word in private, if I may?’+ e governess and the Clerk of the Household retreated a little

way down the passage. + ere they conducted a whispered exchange. When it was over they returned and again took up their places to either side of John.

+ ey retreated the next day too, venturing further out of earshot. Soon their assignations carried them all the way along the passage and halfway down the stairs. At last only W utters of half-stiW ed laughter reached into the room.

John was left to stand like a sentry in the chamber. His arms ached. His every breath seemed to amplify. He took up position with the tray at the door, counting the seconds to his release, while Lucretia sat before her pier glass, pretending to sew.

He should have told Pouncey just as Philip counselled, John berated himself as the days passed. He should have held up the bread like a trophy. Now the chance was gone. Why should he scruple to betray her when she had so willingly shouted out his presence? He had been a fool, or something even worse than a fool. + en, as he stood before her with his tray holding a dish of forcemeats and sallets,

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the greens cooling and drooping beneath his gaze, the sauce growing a thick dull skin, Lucretia broke the silence.

‘You did not tell them.’Her voice was so unexpected he jumped. Lucretia looked up from

her needlework, her pale face visible in the mirror. She glanced down at the bed beneath which the hunk of maslin bread had lain.

‘You might have told Mister Pouncey. You might have claimed your reward.’

John glanced over his shoulder and down the passage.‘+ ey cannot hear,’ Lucretia said.‘I was promised no reward,’ said John.She snorted. ‘You are their creature.’‘I am a cook,’ he answered. ‘Your ladyship.’‘Are you?’ Her voice was scornful.‘I am your cook.’‘I do not believe you.’John felt himself W ush. ‘+ en I will prove it,’ he said, annoyed.

‘Your ladyship.’Lucretia gave a little snort then turned back to her sampler, stab-

bing the needle into the cloth.+ e next day, Pole uncovered the tray and frowned.‘Is this dish not too plain for her ladyship?’John adopted a puzzled look. ‘I imagined her ladyship’s appetite

might be provoked by its plainness.’‘Or too coarse?’ continued Pole.‘Its very robustness commends it, Mrs Pole. We have always found

it most toothsome, down in the kitchen.’A loaf of maslin bread sat on the tray. Mrs Pole looked doubt-

fully at the dark brown block. ‘Very well.’ + e key grated. John, Pole and Fanshawe walked in. Lucretia sat at her table, ignoring them.

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+ is time the governess and the clerk delayed barely a minute before Mister Fanshawe made his request for ‘a word’. John listened until they were out of earshot.

‘Maslin bread, your ladyship.’ He waited. ‘And a stew.’Lucretia looked up. ‘A stew?’ She eyed the loaf.‘A stew of beef,’ said John. ‘With sweet herbs and dumplings.’A W icker of curiosity disturbed Lucretia’s lofty air.‘What . . . stew?’Setting the tray on the table, John carefully broke open the crust

to disclose a case of rye paste beneath. + is he lifted out and cracked with the spoon. From the crack, a pu] of fragrant steam rose up. Hot dark juices W ooded out and swirled around crumbling hunks of dark red meat. + e rich smell drifted in the room. Lucretia eyed the glossy gravy. + en she looked to John.

‘What trick is this?’Closing the coarse rye paste around the cold stew had been the most

di_ cult task. + en crimping the edges and punching an airhole lest the parcel burst. In the oven, John had turned his creation every few minutes. Slowly the paste had baked. John had plugged the airhole then set to work on the loaf, cutting a disc from the base and digging out the insides. Simeon, at John’s invitation, had quickly disposed of the evidence. Now John watched Lucretia’s nostrils twitch. From the stairs, Pole and Fanshawe’s voices sounded. Her suspicion gave way to puzzlement.

‘+ ey will know you brought it.’He shrugged.‘+ at you tried to deceive them.’He shrugged again.‘You will lose your place. + ey will dismiss you.’He looked down at her.

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‘Not if you eat it.’Lucretia looked down at the melting meat in its glistening sauce

then eyed the dark-haired youth.‘Why?’Instead of an answer, John held out a spoon.

Peter Pears, Adam, Alf and Jed Scantlebury laughed and clapped him on the back. Simeon shouted so loudly he had to be told to pipe down. + e others crowded around and banged on the bench, setting the spatulas and pastry-jiggers rattling.

‘She gulped it down!’ John repeated.Peter nodded admiringly. ‘So when will you tell Pouncey?’‘Oh, soon enough,’ he o] ered casually. ‘I’ll give her a few dinners

before that.’+ e others nodded. But Philip frowned.‘Unless they catch you O rst.’John grinned. ‘Not much chance of that.’+ e next day, Mrs Pole looked down on a pie crust. After that came

a bulging tart. + en John o] ered a topping of baked parsnips and on the next day a bread pudding. Lucretia’s governess returned to O nd the crust unbroken, the tart untouched, the bread pudding’s brown surface as pristine as when it had arrived.

‘Perhaps this plainness may be alleviated,’ Pole suggested in the corridor. John nodded solemnly.

+ e next day, Pearmain slices raised little sails of fruit from within a lattice of pastry, each one dabbed with a pennant of cinnamon and sugar. Pole surveyed the gaudy W eet approvingly. Behind her back, John saw Lucretia purse her lips.

She kept her wariness at O rst, accepting his o] erings with a suspi-cious look. But as the days succeeded one another, she ate more readily.

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‘Lawrence Norfolk is a genius’Louis de Bernières

‘Lawrence Norfolk is just about ahead of everyone in generation of English novelists’

Observer

http://www.bloomsbury.com/au/john-saturnalls-feast-9781408805961

a note on the author

Lawrence Norfolk is the bestselling author of Lemprière’s Dictionary, � e Pope’s Rhinoceros and In the Shape of a Boar, three literaryhistorical novels which have been translated into twenty-four

languages. He is the winner of the Somerset Maugham Award and the Budapest Festival Prize for Literature, and his work has been shortlisted for the IMPAC Prize, the James Tait Black Memorial

Award and the Wingate/Jewish Quarterly Prize for Literature. He lives in London with his wife and two sons.

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First published in Great Britain 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Lawrence Norfolk

+ e moral right of the author has been asserted

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the Publisher except in the case of

brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews

Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney

50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 4088 0596 1 (hardback)10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN 978 1 4088 3247 9 (trade paperback)10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, EdinburghPrinted in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

www.bloomsbury.com/lawrencenorfolk

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John Saturnall's Feast

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