The empress of ice cream

Carlo

Infuse the rind of four or five lemons, peeled very thin, with the juice; add three half-pints of thick cow’s milk, and three-quarters of a pound of sugar; simmer, sift through a napkin, and freeze, and you are done.

JTje Book of Ices

After the grandeur of Versailles, the sprawling warren that made up Charles IPs palace of Whitehall came as a surprise. Some parts seemed almost derelict; others contained statues and sundials of quite remarkable workmanship, but placed without apparent thought or care. At one point we came across an ancient half-timbered cottage, seemingly embedded within the palace itself, as if in growing it had simply swallowed up the buildings around it.

‘They keep saying they’re going to pull the old place down,’ Cassell said as he led me through the maze. ‘Charles wants to build his own Versailles, out at Windsor, but Parliament takes the view it is granting him money for foreign policy, not foreign palaces. This way.’

The captain, clearly familiar with the route, opened a door, and we stepped into a cool, stone-flagged dairy. Four brown cows stared at us with mournful eyes. Under their bellies, maids pulled at their Udders with a practised, fluent motion. The smell of warm milk and chewed cud filled the air. Cassell crossed the room without pausing and unlatched another door.

A narrow passage, then a gate. It led into a cloister that contained a small archery butts. A group of women were shooting at a straw target. ‘The queen,’ Cassell said under his breath, nodding

at a slight figure. ‘She practises every day, poor thing. It is all she has to occupy her.’

Yet another door. Now, without warning, we were in a grand salon, the walls covered with frescos. On an ornate chair sat a courtier,''a woman straddling his lap facing him, her dress open to her waist. The woman gave us an incurious glance as we passed; the man did not look up. Cassell ignored them both.

At the next set of doors he halted. ‘Money,’ he said, snapping his fingers. I fumbled for the first of the three purses I had brought with me.

‘Here, I’ll hold this.’ Cassell took the ice box from me.

‘Don’t open it,’ I said anxiously.

‘Don’t worry, I know my orders. Do you have the purse?’

I found the tight leather ball that chinked of coins. ‘Yes.’

‘Give it to the servant.’

He knocked on the door. The footman who opened it pocketed the purse without a word.

We went up some stairs, emerging at the back of a balcony behind a group of people who seemed, from their dress, to be ordinary members of the public. They were gazing down at a vast banqueting hall, where a dozen or so courtiers were seated at a table that could have accommodated forty.

‘The king,’ Cassell said, nodding at the table. ‘Are you ready?’

‘I think so.’

‘Give me the other purses, then.’

As I opened the wooden box, Cassell pressed the last two purses into the hand of another servant. Then he turned and gestured to me.

I eased the silver dish out of the box. Although the mound of ice had softened somewhat during the journey from Vauxhall, it was still intact, only a slight rounding showing that it was no longer as chilled as it once had been. The smell of lemons - clean and fresh - rose from the contents.

II9

‘Hurry,’ Cassell said impatiently. ‘Once he has finished eating he will not linger.’

‘Does he always dine in public.^’ I asked as we clattered down another set of stairs.

‘Only at midday. His evenings are his own. In here. And good luck.’

Cassell opened a final door and stood back to let me through. As I advanced towards the table I felt eyes on me - not just those of the dark, tall figure in the centre who was picking at a plate of fruit, but the servants who stood around him, the men-at-arms at the door, and the public upstairs in the viewing gallery.

Finally, I was close enough to bow. I did it in the Italian manner, one foot forward, the other knee bent, my left arm lifted in a flourish behind me.

‘Your Majesty,’ I said formally, ‘I come from the court of His Most Christian Majesty King Louis the Fourteenth, by the grace of God King of France and of Navarre, and on his command offer you a most remarkable confection.’ I proffered the dish and, finally, raised my head to meet his gaze.

From the descriptions given to me by Lionne and Arlington, I had been expecting some weak-chinned, weak-eyed fop. But the king’s face was well-featured, his expression, despite:the gauntness of his face, intelligent.

‘Od’s fish,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Well, I suppose it must be good, if Louis says it is. What d’you call it.^’

I meant to say ‘cream ice’, but in my nervousness I got the English words mixed up. ‘Ice cream, sir.’

‘Very well.’ He waved me forward.

I looked around for the servant who would taste the king’s food. No one appeared, and for a moment I hesitated.

‘Oh, the king does not fear assassination,’ a voice drawled from the end of the table. A courtier dressed in the elaborate garb of a dandy was observing my confusion. ‘If anyone were to poison him

it would put his brother on the throne, and even in poxy England there is no one quite stupid enough to do that.’

The man was slurring his words, as if he had drunk too much, but there was a guffaw of laughter from some of those around him. I noticed; though, that the king did not join in. He indicated with a gesture that I should place the dish before him myself.

‘You’re French?’ the king asked.

‘By birth I am Italian, sir. But I have spent many years in France.’

‘Then we have something in common. My sister . . .’ He paused. Abruptly, the dark eyes were bleak. ‘My dear late sister was at the court there too.’

‘Indeed, sir. I met Madame on several occasions.’

‘You knew Minette!’

‘Only by sight. But I could see that she was a most virtuous and kind lady. The king himself was heartbroken by her death.’

‘She died the most lamented woman in England or in France,’ the drunk courtier said. ‘Since when, dying has been quite the fashion.’ This time nobody laughed, although the courtier appeared not to notice; or, if he noticed, not to care.

‘I served an ice like this to her, amongst others,’ I said, gesturing at the dish. I meant only to draw the king’s attention back to the table, to prompt him to eat the ice before it melted, but I saw his gaze harden. Of course, Charles already knew the circumstances of his sister’s death, and the rumours that had surrounded it. Was that part of the reason I had been sent here, I wondered? To show the king in person that it was not my ices that had killed her?

He picked up the spoon.

There was silence as he put the first spoonful in his mouth. I knew exacdy what he was tasting: the pulp of Amalfi lemons, their sweetness intensified with a touch of ginger; a sprinkling of the lemon’s rind, grated fine as powder; the whole left infused in rich cow’s milk, twice-frozen and stirred; the resultant ice studded with tiny pieces of candied lemon peel.

I waited for a reaction - any reaction. He looked thoughtful, and it seemed to me that he frowned a little. But it was hard to be sure.

Then, after a single mouthful, he put the spoon down. ‘You will have to forgive me, signor. I find have no appetite at present.’

Trying not to let my disappointment show, I bowed again. ‘Of course. But perhaps I might bring you another, on a different occasion? I would be honoured to remain at court until Your Majesty is in better spirits.’

‘Very well.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘You’ll want paying, I suppose?’

I shrugged politely.

‘Well, I will attend to it,’ he said wearily. ‘Speak to Chiffinch. And in the meantime, perhaps . . . Yes: we have a lady-in-waiting here who is also recently come from France. Mademoiselle de Keroualle.’

‘Oh, is that her name?’ the drunk courtier drawled. ‘I thought she was called Mademoiselle Do-Fuck-Me-Well.’

‘I am acquainted with that lady,’ I said, ignoring the drunk.

‘You must send your ices to her, from me. Tell her it is to make her feel at home.’

‘Tell her,’ the drunk said loudly, ‘that when she comes to court, she may have some royal cock.’

%

Something of my astonishment at the crassness of this remark must have shown in my face, because the king said mildly, ‘You must not mind Lord Rochester. When he is sober he can be quite amusing, but when he is drunk he amuses only himself’

It was a curious thing, but as he spoke these words I found some of the distaste I had felt at the drunkard’s behaviour melting away. Where the Medicis had been austere, and Louis severe, Charles of England was charming - so charming he might almost not have been a king at all.

A lapdog had jumped onto the chair next to \hc king and was now stretching its neck surreptitiously towards the dish of ice cream. ‘Sir . . .’ I said, to warn him.

‘What? Oh, Daisy, get down.’ Charles gave the dog an ineffective push. ‘Tell me, signor, what is your name?’ he said, turning his attention back to me.

‘Demirco, sir.’

‘Do you kndw anything of ice houses, Demirco? How they are made and so on?’

‘Of course.’

‘I have built an ice house. Out there, in St James’s Park. I shall place the ice within it at your disposal.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Only my people can’t get it to work, and the wretched stuff keeps melting.’

I bowed. ‘I would be happy to see if there is anything I can do to improve matters.’

‘Excellent.’ Charles pushed back his chair. The audience was clearly at an end. I bowed again, my left arm raised behind me in the correct, formal manner.

Rochester sniggered. ‘Lord, he looks as if he would produce a dove.’

‘Speak to Chiffinch,’ the king said to me, as a servant stepped forward and fastened a black cloak around the royal shoulders. ‘Thank you. Signor Demirco, and welcome.’

‘Signor Dildo,’ Rochester said thickly. ‘Welcome, Signor Dildo.’

Chiffinch turned out to be the servant on whom Cassell had pressed the final two purses. He was somewhat vague about how much I would be paid, or when. ‘I will speak to the victualler. Or possibly to the pantry cook.’

‘I am the king’s confectioner. I answer to no pantry cook.’

He shrugged. ‘Well, the king will attend to it.’ I had the impression that, unless there were bribes in it, Chiffinch did not care very much either way.

Cassell, though, was pleased. ‘It went as well as could be

expected, under the circumstances. You’d do well to sort out his ice house, though.’

‘And I had better send his message to Louise.’

‘What? Oh, of course. Mademoiselle Do-Fuck-Me-WelL’ He was smiling. ‘Rochester’s an oaf, but he’s a quick-witted one.’

‘So the king said. I have not seen any evidence of it yet, myself,’ I said sourly.

Cassell composed his features, but his mouth twitched. I guessed he was thinking of the fop’s other quip. I sighed. There were many things about this country, I saw, that I was never going to warm to.