“Have you told Sir Nicholas?”
As upset as Riona was to think of a boy being beaten, this household wasn’t her responsibility, and her interference would likely not be welcomed. Yet if Nicholas would put one of his archers in the stocks for two months for killing a dog, surely he’d not approve one of his servants, especially a lad, being beaten.
“God love you, no, my lady!” Polly exclaimed. “Why, I nearly fainted when he called me to his solar that day he give me my dowry. To be sure, he’s not such an ogre as I thought. Still…” She flushed. “Beggin’ your pardon,” she amended before rushing on, “but Alfred said if anybody complained, he’d say they were stealing. To be accused of that before Sir Nicholas—oh, my lady!”
“Can’t you tell Robert, then?”
“He’s gone to the fishing village down the river. Seems Lord Chesleigh’s got a hankering for eels. Besides, Alfred’s good at his job and drives hard bargains with the merchants for the wine and things, so Robert won’t want to lose him.”
“Who else gives orders to the household?”
“Just the cook. Won’t you talk to Alfred, my lady, for our sakes, please?” Polly pleaded. “He might listen to you. Fredella says your uncle says you’ve got a right good way with servants and you’re a lady and all. Something has to be done, or Sir Nicholas is going to have a mutiny in the kitchen!”
However she felt about Sir Nicholas, and no matter what might come of this, Riona couldn’t leave the boy at the mercy of a brute who’d beat him until he was black-and-blue. “I’ll speak to the cook,” she said, rising.
And she’d deal with Sir Nicholas if and when he complained.
“Oh, thank you, my lady!” Polly cried, relieved. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to get Alfred—fat oaf that he is—to see reason! And poor Tom’ll be pleased.”
Riona looked down at Eleanor. “This could be unpleasant, so if you’d rather stay here, I’ll understand.”
Eleanor set aside her sewing and got to her feet. “I’d rather come with you.”
Impressed by her resolve, glad of her company, Riona immediately started for the kitchen, followed by a silent Eleanor.
Polly, however, was the opposite of silent. “We used to have a fine cook,” she said breathlessly as she trotted to keep up with Riona and Eleanor, “but Etienne went home to Normandy, and this one come in his place. He’s a right villain, beggin’ your pardon. He gives an order, then forgets what he said, and getsangry when that ain’t done and we done something else, like we’re supposed to read his mind. Three of the girls just up and left yesterday and won’t come back, even after they heard what his lordship done for me. Said it wasn’t worth it, as long as Alfred was here, and I don’t blame ’em. I’d go, too, except that Sir Nicholas is giving me a dowry.”
As they drew near the kitchen, they could hear the cook cursing and shouting orders through the door.
Riona pushed it open and found herself in an enormous room that was easily the size of her uncle’s hall, manned by what seemed an army of servants. There was a huge open hearth at one end and a large wooden worktable. Ham, leeks and herbs hung from the ceiling.
In the center of the room, waving a ladle, was an enormous, and enormously irate, red-faced, middle-aged, bald man. He wore a very stained apron, and was sweating from the heat—or from the effort of berating the two women standing at the worktable, pies in front of them. The crust had come apart around the rim, and gravy had boiled over and run down the sides.
“Are you blind? Or idiots?” he screamed as other servants huddled together or watched warily as they went about their work.
“How many times did I tell you to cut the crust?” Alfred made slashing motions with his ladle. “Now they’re ruined! Fit only for the pigs!” He grabbed one pie and threw it into the hearth, where it splattered against the back wall.
That’s when Riona saw the boy crouched in the corner near the hearth, his thin arms thrown over his head. His thin, black-and-blue arms.
Quivering with indignant rage, she marched up to the cook and grabbed the ladle out of his chubby fingers. “Lay a hand on that boy, or any servant in this kitchen again, and you’ll be sorry,” she said sternly, throwing the ladle onto the floor. “And quit shouting, if you’d like to be heard. You sound like a spoiled child, or some tavern keeper, not the cook in a lord’s hall.”
The cook folded his fat arms over his prodigious belly and looked down his short nose at her. “And who are you, to be coming into my kitchen and telling me what to do?”
She leaned close to the cook’s sweaty face, ignoring the odor of beef and gravy he gave off. “I am Lady Riona of Glencleith, and I’ve been in charge of my uncle’s household since I was twelve years old—and never, in all that time, have I had to raise my voice and curse the servants.”
“Well, Lady Riona of Whatever-you-said,” he retorted, “I have been a nobleman’s cook for twenty years, and I’ve never had any complaints from my masters.”
“Not yet, anyway. I intend to tell Sir Nicholas what’s been going on here.”
The cook sniffed. “What will he care? He pays me well for my skill, and that’s all that matters.”
Riona smiled slowly, in a way that struck deserved fear into the merchants who tried to cheat her. “You think so?”
“Yes, I do!”
“We’ll just have to see about that,” she snapped as she turned on her heel and gestured for Eleanor. “Come. We’ll go find Sir Nicholas and see who’s right.”
She marched out of the kitchen and into the courtyard. Then she realized she didn’t know where Nicholas was, whether with his soldiers or out on patrol, or in his solar. She came to a frustrated halt, which also gave Eleanor and Polly, who’d hurried out of the kitchen after her, time to catch up.
