A Tale of Two Castles

He winked at me. “I’m in your debt, young mistress, for taking the onions.”


I was not partial to winkers, but I winked back. “I’m new, young master. I never saw the inside of a castle before today.”

Another wink from him. “A castle’s big so a count or a king can bring his friends in and keep his enemies’ armies out.”

“How clever.” I nodded encouragingly. Tell me something that will lead me to Nesspa or that I can tell Masteress Meenore.

“Thick walls, soldiers within, enough food to last a month. If we die, the rats can eat us for another month.”

Ugh!

He winked yet again. “If grand folk didn’t have enemies, they could live in houses.”

If poor folk had money, they could live in castles. “I never saw an ogre or a dragon before I came to town.”

“How do you like them?” He picked up another cucumber.

I’d minced three onions to his single cucumber. “They’re both big. I saw the ogre turn himself into a monkey. What a sight that was!”

His smile reached his ears. “He’s a fine monkey.”

“Do you think him fine as an ogre, too?”

“His Lordship”—he stressed the title—“pays better wages than any other master, and never a beating or a harsh word.” He winked. “Hardly a word at all. What does that matter?”

“The people of Two Castles seem not to care for him.”

“That den of thieves! None of us comes from there. They won’t work for him, and we wouldn’t work for anyone else.”

If all the servants came from elsewhere, then Master Thiel couldn’t be a groom or any sort of servant. “They say His Lordship’s dog was taken right here in the castle. Who would do such a thing?”

He thrust his head at me, then drew back because of the onions, no doubt. “We wouldn’t!”

He had no more winks or words for me. I nicked my finger and sucked the drop of blood that beaded up. Master Jak would see red if the onions were pink.

The castle bells rang midmorning.

A hand gripped my shoulder. “By thunder, His Lordship wants you to be cupbearer at the feast and pour for him, the king, and the princess.” Master Jak turned me on my stool. “Have you poured before?”

The king! “At home, from pitcher to cup.”

“At home.” He sighed and let my shoulder go. “Pitcher. Cup. By thunder.”

The boy laughed. Master Jak glared at him, and he lowered his head and peeled.

“I have a steady arm.” But I didn’t know how steady it would be, pouring for Greedy Grenny.

“Cellarer Bwat will show you. Ehlodie, those you serve should have what they want before they know they want it. Watch their hands, their shoulders, their faces. Even though you stand behind them, contrive to see.”

How? I would lean over and spill wine on everyone.

“His Lordship requested you. The princess will be forbearing, but if you spill a drop, even a speck of a drop, on the king . . . By thunder, don’t.”

What if I did? A flogging? Prison?

A woman’s voice called, “Master Jak, do you have the suet crock?”

He called back. “There’s another in the cupboard.” He put his hand under my chin and pulled my face toward his. I saw his pores, the veins in his eyes, a drop of sweat sliding down his nose. “If you spoil His Lordship’s day—if you cause him a moment of grief—you will feel the wrath of a chief third assistant cook. Cellarer Bwat will come for you in a minute.” He strode away.

I lifted the half-full bowl of onions onto my lap. With the side of my knife, I scraped chopped onions from the chopping board into the bowl.

Master Jak stood over me again. “I near forgot. After the second remove, before the mansioners perform, His Lordship would like you to recite for his guests.”

“Recite?” I jumped up. “Something? Truly? Oh, Master Jak!” I wiped my tears with my fist. “What should I recite?”

“Whatever you . . .” He looked down.

I did, too. Unaware, I’d let my bowl slide to the floor, spilling the onions.

I was sorry, but I didn’t care. I was going to mansion!

If I wasn’t first sent to jail.

Cellarer Bwat’s most prominent feature, his bushy, white eyebrows, stood out from his face. If my pouring went amiss, his watery blue eyes might spring open wide and pop his eyebrows off.

His lips were pinched, his nose a mere button. His head tilted permanently in a listening attitude. He led me out of the kitchen, walking bent from the waist, as if he spoke only to seated people. As I followed, I thought about what to recite.

I could tell the touching tale of Io, who was doomed to roam the world as a heifer. No, not a good choice, to portray a shape-shifted cow in the presence of a shape-shifting ogre.

“Don’t dawdle, girl.”

“My name is Elodie, Cellarer Bwat.”

The vast emptiness of the great hall had been filled. Boards mounted on trestles and placed end to end formed a table that stretched two-thirds the length of the chamber. A shorter trestle table had been erected on the dais, with the three chairs drawn up to it. Benches flanked the chairs. Neither table had yet been covered with cloth, and the bare, pocked wood looked shabby.

The walls were hung with linen panels, freshly dyed, colors bright. A scene of feasting spread across the outer wall. The diners could pretend the fabric an improving reflection, their persons made beautiful or handsome as they raised tumblers, fed one another, laughed, or sang.

On the opposite wall, the hangings depicted an animal parade led by a lion, ending with a mouse. In the middle I spied a large golden dog, a monkey, a beaver, a boar, and many more. Some of them I suspected of being fantastical: a creature with an endless neck, a striped horse, an awkward beast with a lump on its back as big as a wheelbarrow. I wondered if one was the high eena Masteress Meenore said I’d heard when I’d passed the menagerie.