Keturah and Lord Death

IV What happens when I test the charm’s power; I ask Cook for a lemon; an unexpected visitor; John Temsland says, “We are doomed.”

As I walked in the village I gripped the charm and looked deep into the eyes of every man I met upon the road, just in case.

If any of them was my true love, I did not recognize him, nor did the eye. It flickered and shook in my hand like a trapped beetle. Most of the men would not look at me for long, fearful of one who had likely communed with fairies.

I picked my way around muddy ruts in what passed for the road into Tide-by-Rood, and stopped at the outskirts to consider my village.

Across the bay, the forest marched right to the banks, as if it would cross and wring our village away with its vast roots. Behind the village we kept the forest at a distance only by ax and saw. Nearest the water was the church with its blackened bell, then the half-fallen smithy and the infested mill, and then the cottages going up the hill, planted like wilting flowers in a tiered garden. At the top, where the rise leveled off and the forest began, was the manor, Lord Temsland’s great house. Once it had been grand, but now the roof needed repairing and the whole of it looked neglected. West of the manor was the apple orchard, and just beyond that, also at the edge of the forest, stood our worn little cottage, with nothing but the garden between us and the deep, wild wood.

Still, the sun shone with familiar cheer.

I could not imagine the plague on this sunny day. Hadn’t I heard how whole villages perished in a fortnight? How little ones wept in their own filth, wondering why their parents did not come to comfort or feed, not understanding that they were dead? How neighbors boarded up the homes of the stricken while those inside died of the plague or, worse, of starvation? How friend ran away from friend, lover from lover, mother from child?

Surely not, I thought, shaking my head in disbelief and horror. Surely not Tide-by-Rood! And if so, what words could I use to persuade John Temsland to do something? I continued on my way, letting my scarf fall back a little and looking boldly about as I walked. I gazed at every man and squeezed the charm, but still the charm searched and searched.

I headed toward the manor, but it seemed I was not the only one. The entire village, almost, was gathering at the manor. Gretta and Beatrice caught up with me and linked arms.

“Are you coming to cheer on the men, Keturah?” Beatrice asked, flushed and panting for breath.

“No, I am going to see John Temsland. I must speak with him.”

“John Temsland? But he will not be seeing anyone,” Gretta said.

“Today is the hunt—the hunt of the hart who lured you into the forest,” Beatrice said.

“But I would not have him hunted!” I exclaimed, remembering his royal beauty.

“You could not stop them,” Gretta said.

“But I must try.” Now my errand was doubled—not only must I tell John Temsland what Lord Death had revealed to me, but I must beg him, or his father, to call off the hunt. As I looked for the young lord, I also clutched the charm and plunged among the gathered men, seizing the opportunity to see which of them was my true love. The eye darted, flickering back and forth in my hand until I myself was jittery and the flesh of my arm crawled. The eye settled on no one.

I looked at old and young, fair and plain, tall and small. I gazed at fat and thin, hairy and bald, rich and poor. Almost all the men of the village were there, though only those rich enough to own a horse would venture into the wood for the hunt. The rest cheered them on, made bets as to whose arrow would bring the stag down, and told my stories of the stag and how he had eluded hunters in the past. Seeing them so animated made me feel the importance of my original errand more acutely.

Suddenly I saw Lord Temsland, though not his son, and I pushed through the crowd toward him. “My lord!” I called. “Please, my lord!”

But before I could reach him, Lady Temsland came on a horse and spoke urgently to him.

“A messenger!” I heard Lord Temsland exclaim. “But we’ve never had a messenger from the king, nor any visitor at all.”

“Husband,” she said, “the hunt must wait. The king has sent his most trusted servant, Duke Morland, and I have persuaded him to take his midday meal with us. Come.” Without waiting, she spun her horse around, and Lord Temsland followed her.

“Set traps for the hart!” Lord Temsland called as he rode away. Some men entered the wood to perform the task, but I sighed with relief as most of the men began to stream away toward the village, distracted from the hunt by a desire to see a messenger from the king. Somehow, in the press of people, I had missed John.

I turned back to the wood, thinking that the young lord might yet be there, but instead Ben Marshall stood before me, tall and comely. “Keturah,” he said, “you are still pale. You have not fully recovered.”

“I slept well,” I replied, and then realized the eye had stopped. No, not stopped, but slowed. It was rolling up and down in my hand as if it were taking Ben in, considering him from the top of his head down to his sod-stained boots.

I felt myself blushing, as if it were I myself who was looking him up and down.

“My, it is warm,” I said, though it was not. Stop, I told the eye in my mind. Stop. But it did not stop. It continued to slide in my hand, rolling up and down and side to side, as if it were trying to see around him, as if my true love might be standing behind Ben. It was all I could do not to squeeze the eye into stillness.

“Are you planning what you will make for the cooking contest at the fair, Keturah?” he asked. He said it flirtatiously, as if those were courting words.

“Oh, yes. Of course,” I said, and blushed again for my lie. Slow was good, I thought, thinking of the eye. Or at least hopeful. The eye needed only time, though time was, alas, in short supply.

“Come to the manor with me, and let us see the messenger from the king,” Ben said.

We walked, and he talked of everyday things, and speculated upon the marvel of a visit from the king’s messenger. I wondered at how mundane his concerns would seem to him if only he knew what I knew.

Through it all, the eye kept rolling. Perhaps it was not working properly, and would not until Soor Lily’s price was paid. Or would it not stop for Ben because one had to be Best Cook to marry him? I scarcely heard a word Ben said after that, so busy was I with thoughts of finding a foolproof way to win Best Cook. If only I had more time!

I looked up at the sky to see how much more day I had.

How had the sun, which moved so slowly when I was doing chores or waiting for the common fire, become a swooping bird of prey? I shadowed my eyes with my hand to look at it, my enemy, and in that moment I knew how to secure the prize of Best Cook for myself.

Ben was saying something about Farmer Dan and holy water, but I interrupted him.

“I must go!” I said. “Goodbye!” And I gathered my skirts to run.

“Keturah …,” he called after me.

“I have a plan,” I called back, “to win me Best Cook!”

Along the way, Gretta and Beatrice intercepted me. “Do you go to find John Temsland, Keturah?” Beatrice asked as they matched their strides to mine.

“First I must go to Lord Temsland’s kitchen,” I said.

“His kitchen?” Gretta exclaimed.

“But why are you going to the kitchen, Keturah?” Beatrice asked.

“To obtain a lemon.”

Both Beatrice and Gretta stopped. “A lemon?” they asked at the same time.

“A lemon,” I said, continuing briskly. “‘Tis a fruit, dears. Grandfather spoke of it once, after he went to the king’s court with Lord Temsland.”

“A lemon!”

“They say it is as yellow as the sun,” I said.

“We know that,” Gretta said, “but …”

“And more sour than a crabapple.” My plan was becoming clearer to me as I spoke. “Yet with it I could make a dish that would cause Ben Marshall to forget all other dishes, a dish that would cause him to forget all other foods and all other women. It will make me the Best Cook of the fair, and he will ask me to marry him, and I will say yes.” I looked at my friends and smiled. “‘Tis said the queen has lemon in her tea at Easter and Christmas. I am hoping Cook has one.”

“So your true love is—Ben Marshall?” Beatrice ventured.

“Yes,” I said, “or at least the charm gives me hope that it is so. I shall do all in my power to love him. With all my heart. Undyingly.”

“Then we shall come with you,” Gretta said.

Once at the manor kitchen, I knocked, and old Cook came to the door. “Who is it, then?” she asked, peering at me. She was so farsighted she could not tell a face. She could smell, though. “Must be the Reeve girl. Much gossip about you today. You still smell like the forest. And Beatrice and Gretta are never far behind. Thank heavens you’ve all come.”

“Cook, we cannot stay.”

“You must stay.” As she spoke she herded us into the kitchen. “I have the aches today, and it is today of all days the lord receives a messenger of the king. Dinner must be ready, and it must be fine.”

“But Cook,” I said, “I came only to fetch a lemon.”

Cook stopped. “A what?”

“A lemon, Cook, so that she can win Best Cook at the fair,” said Beatrice. “So that Ben Marshall will marry her, so that—” Gretta nudged Beatrice, and she fell silent.

Cook laughed. Her teeth were all brown but strong. “A lemon!” she said to me. “Is that all, child? Well, let me check the larders for a stray one. But they are very dear. If I give you a lemon, first you must cook. You and your friends.”

She dragged me along, grinning ferociously, as if she were twice my size and not half of it. “You will do pastries today. I know you can do pastries. And watch the pig, too.”

As Cook led me into the bowels of her kitchen, I thought that this was how Jonah must have felt in the belly of the great fish. It was dark and hot, and slimy with blood and guts and grease. Smoke and fire filled the room, and the smell of rot and garbage overcame the smell of roasting. Someone shouted and someone else moaned.

Cook set me to my task, and I worked pastry and turned the spit until my back was a rigid board of pain. In the flames of the fire I thought I saw Death’s fine face, and sometimes I thought I heard his laughter. Cook set tasks for Gretta and Beatrice as well. I told myself the pastry was not a bad price for a lemon, the prize that would foil Death’s plan.

After what seemed hours, I grabbed Cook as she scuttled by me. “Cook, surely by now I have earned my lemon,” I said.

“No, not yet,” she said. “Keep going.”

“How do I know you even have a lemon?” I asked, knowing she was a sly old thing.

“Oh, I do, I do.”

“Let’s see it, then,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t show my precious lemons to just any village girl,” she said.

So I made pies until I had repented of every sin I had ever committed, including coming for a lemon before I had asked John to do something to stay the plague. I confessed every sin out loud to the roasting pig. Whenever the pastor spoke of death, in the same breath he spoke of hell and fire. If death was anything like Lord Temsland’s kitchen, I had no desire to go there. I wondered if Lord Death ruled the good or the bad, and while I could remember no evil in the darkness of his eyes, I could tell they had seen much suffering. But then, it mattered not whether he was lord of the happy dead or the sad; I wanted no part of either.

At last Cook came and declared the pastries fine and the pig perfectly done, and I collapsed onto a stool.

“Now gravy,” she said, putting a buttery finger under my chin.

“No,” I said resolutely. “I know nothing about gravy.”

“Can you not cook, then?” she asked. “Shall I tell this to Ben Marshall?”

“Please, no! I can do pies. Meat pies and fruit pies. Pies. Only pies, but I am better at pies than Padmoh.”

She studied me, realizing perhaps that she had met a soul as stubborn as her own. “Come,” she said. “With the face of an angel you will serve, then. You can walk and carry a tray, can you not?”

I stood. “Yes. But before I take another step, I shall have my lemon.”

“Nay, but only serve, lass, and I shall find you my greenest lemon.”

“Green! But lemons are yellow.”

“That is what I meant—yellow.”

“You don’t have one!” I exclaimed. I grabbed her by the nose. “Confess, old brown tooth, you don’t have any lemons.”

“No, I don’t, foolish girl,” she said, smacking my hand. “There is not a one to be had in these parts, though I’ve heard one can be bought for its weight in gold in the Great Market. But if you love Lord Temsland and do not wish to disgrace him before the king’s messenger, then you shall serve!”

“Then I will ask the lord myself for a lemon,” I said stubbornly to Cook.

“Ask,” she said cheerfully. “And while you are at it, ask for half his holdings, an equally small thing.”

Gretta, Beatrice, and I were given heavy trays of trenchers to carry into the great hall. We were mournful at first, but when we saw the crowd, and saw that we would have a server’s close view of the messenger, Duke Morland, our hearts were cheered. The duke was dressed in turquoise silk, a man very different from Lord Temsland, who dressed in woolens and furs and had little time for much else but the hunt. Beatrice blushed when she served the messenger, and whispered to me that he smelled like a begonia.

The duke surveyed the feast before him, then smiled as one would who was served mudcakes by a little child. He concentrated on his food, chewing thoroughly, as if the meat were tough. Young John Temsland picked at his meat and ate nothing. Lady Temsland, too, ate lightly. Only Lord Temsland seemed to enjoy his food, licking his fingers and sopping up the sauce with Cook’s good bread, as if he were alone in the room, relaxed and unconcerned.

Lady Temsland and the duke exchanged pleasantries. As I served, I tried to attend more to the needs of John. I had not forgotten my gratitude that he had found me at the wood’s edge and carried me home, nor that he had promised me an interview.

“Keturah,” he said, smiling, when he saw that it was I who served him at table. “Are you well?”

“Well enough, sir,” I said, and returned his smile.

The messenger noted John’s kind words to me, a peasant, and frowned in obvious disapproval. John flushed at this and then said, with seeming care that Duke Morland hear him, “You are far too lovely to serve, Keturah Reeve, and too recently recovered from your adventure. Please, take off your apron and sit at table with us.”

“Oh no, sir, I …”

“It is my express desire,” he said, and I knew by his tone that I would anger him if I did not obey.

Numbly, I sat down at the table, but I did not remove my apron with its precious charm. Many villagers had gathered in the corners and shadows of the common room to see a messenger of the king. I could feel their eyes full upon me now, though I stared at the table and would not look up. Of all the eyes, it was those of the messenger’s, full of disdain, that I felt most.

Lord Temsland also seemed somewhat surprised, but he said nothing. The gracious Lady Temsland behaved as if everything was as it should be.

Gretta served me once, saying “Ma’am” with a little smile.

I stole glances at John. He had always been mischievous, but brave of heart. Though he was bucked off several times as a lad, he’d never learned to fear a horse and had become a masterful rider. Once he’d climbed a great tree and couldn’t get down. He had to be rescued by Cass Porter, and his father made him chop Cass’s wood for a month as punishment. John had done it in good humor, and had even chopped the wood another fortnight—as his own apology, he had said.

I confess that I ate little, instead holding the eye while I looked at the men in the crowd. Soon, though, I could not bear its quivering, and I took my hand away.

It was not until the pastries were all passed that Duke Morland stated the king’s business.

“The fame of your land reaches the king,” the man said in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the hall.

The room fell silent. Tide-by-Rood, famous?

“I am honored, sir,” Lord Temsland answered in his deep, gruff voice. John, his mouth half-full of food, glanced uncomfortably at his mother.

The duke dabbed at his mouth, laid his napkin down primly, and leaned toward Lord Temsland. His voice was haughty. “The king has heard of the, ahem, great things you have supposedly done with this corner of the kingdom which he so generously gave you. He has heard”—here the messenger cast a dubious eye around the room—“that you have the best corner of all.”

Lord Temsland smiled broadly, stretched back in his chair, and put his arm on the back of his son’s chair. “Indeed I do,” he said. “The king was generous. There is no hunting anywhere as fine as in my forest lands.”

Everyone in the village knew how Lord Temsland had come to be lord of these lands. Many years before, the king had invited him to a hunt in the royal woodlands. The king did well that day, felling a six-point buck. All praised him until Lord Temsland, returning last, was discovered to have landed an even bigger buck. Soon thereafter some lords who were jealous of Lord Temsland used the moment of the king’s displeasure to persuade him that Lord Temsland should be humbled. His great lands near the court were taken away, and he was given a tiny manor in the southwest corner of the kingdom with only two villages, Tide-by-Rood and Marshall. “I have thought that with a good lord to oversee these lands, much could be done with them,” the king told him. “But at least it is rich in forest lands and teeming with game. With your hunting abilities, you’ll surely be happy there.”

Indeed, once he got over his resentment at being virtually banished from the court and from titled society, Lord Temsland was happy enough here, and his wife and son loved their lands and people. But it was well known that Lord Temsland was the poorest of the lords, and whenever he went to court, many mocked him for his misfortune. Since neither the king nor the lords ever ventured this far, Lord Temsland had taken to making up stories about his lands—how the villagers were as fair and good as the people of Great Town.

“In particular, the king has heard that you have a fine fair each year,” the messenger said.

“That, sir, is true,” John Temsland said. John seemed glad that something the duke had said was true.

“I am sent to announce that the king will come to Tide-by-Rood at fair time,” the duke said, “with an entourage of his greatest lords. He wishes to see your lands and your village and witness for himself how … fine they are.” He cleared his throat. “Since he comes at fair time, I am instructed to say that His Majesty offers a prize—his shoe full of gold and a wish granted—to the one who most delights him at the fair.”

The entire hall rang with silence for a moment. Lord Temsland flushed and ran a hand over his whiskers. At last Lady Temsland said in her soft, gentle voice, “Please tell the king we are deeply honored, and we look forward to his visit.”

Duke Morland nodded once, and stood. “Now, if you will grant me leave.” He did not wait for permission. His eye took in the shabby manor, the shoddily dressed servants, and he positively smirked as he strode out.

There was a hush among the noble family and the servants alike. All at once everyone began to speak: “The king is coming to Tide-by Rood! The king is coming to our fair!” But I heard Lady Temsland say to her husband, “You have been boasting, my dear.”

John Temsland beside me said, “We are doomed.”