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Fitch, ever so slowly so as not to be obvious, slipped backward a couple of paces, keeping his head down, trying not to appear as if he were listening to the Minister’s aide giving the kitchen master instructions. He wished he could leave, rather than risk being thought a snoop, but he knew he’d be yelled at if he left without being sent off, so he compromised at trying to be inconspicuous but at hand.
“And the spiced wine, there needs to be more of a variety this time. Some people thought last time’s selection skimpy. Hot and cold, both, please.”
Master Drummond pressed his lips together. “Short notice, Mr. Campbell. If you could, in the future—”
“Yes, yes, if I am informed, so will be you.” He flipped over another page. “Dainties. They are to be served at the head table only, until they have had their fill. Last time the Minister was embarrassed to discover them gone and some guests at his table left wanting more. Let the other tables go wanting, first, if for some reason you have been unable to acquire a proper supply.”
Fitch remembered that incident, too, and he knew that this time Master Drummond had ordered more of the deer testicles fried up. Fitch had pilfered one of the treats as he took the fry pan to be washed, although he had to eat it without the sweet-and-sour sauce. It was still good.
As Dalton Campbell checked his papers, he asked questions about different salts, butters, and breads, and gave Master Drummond a few more corrections to the dinner. Fitch, as he waited, trying not to watch the two men, watched instead the woman at a nearby table make the pig’s stomachs, stuffed with ground meats, cheeses, eggs, and spices, into hedgehogs by covering them with almond “spines.”
At another table, two women were re-feathering roasted peacocks with feathers colored by saffron and yellow turnsole. Even the beaks and claws were colored, so that the newly plumed birds looked like spectacular creatures of gold—like gold statues—only more lifelike.
Dalton Campbell, at last seeming to finish with his list of questions and instructions, lowered his arms, one hand loosely holding the hand holding the papers.
“Is there anything you would like to report, Drummond?”
The kitchen master licked his lips, seeming not to know what the aide was talking about. “No, Mr. Campbell.”
“And everyone in your kitchen, then, is doing their job to your satisfaction?” His face was blank of emotion.
Fitch saw eyes in the room cautiously turn up for a quick peek. The work going on all about seemed to grow quieter. He could almost see ears getting bigger.
It seemed to Fitch like maybe Dalton Campbell was working around the edges of accusing Master Drummond of not running a good kitchen by allowing lazy people to avoid their duties and then failing to punish them. The kitchen master seemed to suspect the same accusation.
“Well, yes sir, they are doing their job to my satisfaction. I keep them in line, Mr. Campbell. I’ll not have slackers ruining the workings of my kitchen. I couldn’t have that; this is too important a household to allow any sluggard to spoil things. I don’t allow it, no sir, I don’t.”
Dalton Campbell nodded his pleasure at hearing this. “Very good, Drummond. I, too, would not like to have slackers in the household.” He scanned the room of silent, quietly hardworking people. “Very well. Thank you, Drummond. I will check back later, before it’s time to begin serving.”
Master Drummond bowed his head. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell.”
The Minister’s aide turned and started to leave, and as he did so, he caught sight of Fitch standing there. As he frowned, Fitch lowered his head on his shoulders even more, wishing he could melt into the cracks in the wood floor. Dalton Campbell glanced back over his shoulder at the kitchen master.
“What is this scullion’s name?”
“Fitch, Mr. Campbell.”
“Fitch. Ah, I get it, then. And how long has he worked in the household?”
“Some four years, Mr. Campbell.”
“Four years. That long.” He turned fully around to face Master Drummond. “And is he a slacker, then, who ruins the workings of your fine kitchen? One who should have been put out of the household long ago, but has not been for some mysterious reason? You haven’t been overlooking your responsibility as kitchen master, allowing a slacker to be under the Minister’s roof, have you? Are you truly guilty of such dereliction?”
Fitch stood in frozen terror, wondering if he would be beaten before they threw him out, or if they would simply show him the door and send him away without so much as a morsel of food. Master Drummond’s gaze flicked back and forth between Fitch and the aide.
“Well, uh, no sir. No, Mr. Campbell. I see to it that Fitch pulls his share of the load. I’d not let him be a slacker under the Minister’s roof. No sir.”
Dalton Campbell peered back at Fitch with a puzzling expression. He looked once again to the kitchen master. “Well, then, if he does as you ask, and does his work, I see no reason to demean the young man by calling him Fetch, do you? Don’t you think that reflects badly on you, Drummond, as kitchen master?”
“Well, I—”
“Very good, then. I’m glad you agree. We’ll have no more of that kind of thing in the household.”
Either with stealth or bold intent, nearly every eye in the kitchen was on the exchange between the two men. That fact was not lost on the kitchen master.
“Well, now, just a minute, if you don’t mind. No real harm is meant, and the boy doesn’t mind, do you now, Fitch—”
Dalton Campbell’s posture changed in a way that halted the words in Master Drummond’s mouth before they could finish coming out. The noble-looking aide’s dark Ander eyes took on a dangerous gleam. He seemed suddenly taller, his shoulders broader, his muscles more evident under his fine, dark blue doublet and quilted jerkin.
His offhanded, distracted, casual, and at times stuffy official tone was suddenly gone. He’d transformed into a threat as deadly-looking as the weapon at his hip.
“Let me put it another way for you, Drummond. We’ll not have that sort of thing under this roof. I expect you to comply with my wishes. If I ever again hear you demean any of our staff by calling them by names intended to be humiliating, I will have a new kitchen master and you put out. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Very clear, thank you, sir.”
Campbell started to leave, but turned back, his whole person conveying the image of menace. “One other thing. Minister Chanboor gives me orders, and I carry them out without fail. That is my job. I give you orders, and you carry them out without fail. That is your job.
“I expect the boy to do his work or be put out, but you put him out and you had better be prepared to provide proof of why, and moreover, if you make it hard on him because of my orders, then I will not put you out, but instead I will gut you and have you roasted on that spit over there. Now, is all that absolutely clear, Mr. Drummond?”
Fitch hadn’t known Master Drummond’s eyes could go so wide. Sweat beaded all over his forehead. He swallowed before he spoke.
“Yes sir, absolutely clear. It will be as you say. You have my word.”
Dalton Campbell seemed to shrink back to his normal size, which was not small to begin with. The pleasant expression returned to his face, including t
he polite smile.
“Thank you, Drummond. Carry on.”
Not once during the exchange had Dalton Campbell looked at Fitch, nor did he as he turned and strode out of the kitchen. Along with Master Drummond and half the people in the kitchen, Fitch let out his breath.
When he thought again about what had just happened, and he realized, for the first time, really, that Master Drummond would no longer be calling him “Fetch,” he was overcome with weak-kneed astonishment. He suddenly thought very highly of Dalton Campbell.
Pulling his white towel from behind his belt and blotting his forehead, Master Drummond noticed people watching. “Back to work, all of you.” He replaced the towel. “Fitch,” he called in a normal voice, just like when he called the other people in his kitchen.
Fitch took two quick steps forward. “Yes, sir?”
He gestured. “We need some more oak. Not as much as the last time. About half that much. Be quick about it, now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fitch ran for the door, eager to get the wood, not even caring about the splinters he might get.
He would never again have to be humiliated by that hated name. People would not laugh at him over it. All because of Dalton Campbell.
At that moment, Fitch would have carried hot coals in his bare hands if Dalton Campbell asked it, and smiled all the way.
17
Unbuttoning the top button of his doublet, Dalton Campbell, with his other hand, nudged the tall mahogany door to their quarters until he felt the latch click home. At once, the balm of quiet began to soothe him. It had been a long day, and it was far from over; there was still the feast to attend.
“Teresa,” he called across the sitting room back toward the bedroom, “it’s me.”
He wished they could stay in. Stay in and make love. His nerves needed the diversion. Later, perhaps. If business didn’t interfere.
He unfastened another button and tugged open the collar as he yawned. The fragrance of lilacs filled his lungs. Heavy blue moire drapes at the far windows were drawn against the darkening sky, leaving the room to perfumed mellow lamplight, scented candles, and the flickering glow of a low fire in the hearth, burning for the cheer it brought, rather than the need of heat.
