Sunday, August 23, 2009

DAHLQUIN, Beginning

DAHLQUIN CASTLE

JUNE 7, 1224 AD

Uninvited guests are the scourge of hospitality.

“Remember, if you turn away my brother, so you turn away me,” someone recited as a reminder.

“Aye, that’s beggars and the like, not well fed noblemen,” another kitchen worker complained above the noise. “With lust and mayhem in their eyes.”

“Could be angels, or even our Lord and Savoir Jesus, in disguise,” Lady Eloise chimed in; but she didn’t believe it. Not this time anyway.

“Aye, you’ll be kept safe enough,” the worker grumbled.

Eloise and her mother, Lady Anne, briskly concluded the details of the evenings feast with Margaret the head cook. Generally noisy, the castle kitchen buzzed with heightened excitement. A banquet, unplanned and spontaneous required all workers to task, more bread to bake, soup must be stretched, best to butcher a ram, the hunters may return too late.

“Enough,” her mother, Anne, said sternly, “Please finish the accounting.”

“Why can’t the seneschal do it? It is his job to manage,” Eloise said. A tedious task when they had unexpected guests to dress for.

“The seneschal is with your father, interrogating the six strangers,” not guests, her mother emphasized. “He needs an accounting of all supplies used and remaining. And, since you need reminding,” her mother added, “it is your job foremost as a lady of Dahlquin to manage. Then his.”

Eloise sighed, couldn’t this wait until tomorrow? Guests were a special treat at Dahlquin, a remote Irish castle in western Connacht, guarding the frontier. Good Christian knights were a rare commodity, compared with the merchants, jongleurs or unscrupulous raiders. A time to hear news, gossip and tales. Songs, dances, or games might be shared, and the people of Dahlquin could send word of the events in their lives to the other estates of Ireland and beyond.

“Very good, Margaret,” Anne said to the cook, “I’ll leave you to it.” She turned to her daughter, “Eloise, finish tabulating the barley and flour used then meet me in the garden, unless you prefer to spin,” Anne said, exiting the kitchen. Her long braids hung regally, barely moving although she walked quickly.

“I’ll be in the herb garden, Mama,” Eloise agreed. Some of the workers giggled. Few things displeased the younger Lady Dahlquin more than spinning thread at her distaff.

“Back to work!” Margaret ordered her assistants. “It’s a feast to prepare and all the more work for us. Six hungry strangers, from the north.” Margaret sensed the lord and lady Dahlquin were agitated yet all proceeded jovially. “Mind your mother, lady,” Margaret called to Eloise, “don’t dawdle lest we both suffer.”

Eloise sulked in a corner, bent over the musty ledger.

Save for the middle of the night, the kitchens were always busy. Dahlquin was a large estate with many mouths to feed. The great hearths smoked and belched, cauldrons simmered and sputtered. Children kept the fuel coming and swept the embers and ash. Quick moving terriers were under foot and the occasional cat made her way stealthily through the shelves; each chasing the opportunistic vermin or snatching the rare scraps that might fall to the floor.

Today’s gossip throughout the female ranks of Dahlquin castle concerned tall, handsome, mysterious, noble, courageous, gentle knights from afar, six of them. The wild imaginings and exaggerations of the evening to come had the womenfolk, old, young, highborn or low, carrying on. The kitchen workers were no different.

“Oh, aye,” said the upstairs charwoman, I saw ‘em come in. Tall as trees, straight in the saddles. I could feel the presence of God upon ‘em. Father, Bless me,” she stated, dropping her eyes and crossing herself.

“Oh nay,” a kitchen helper disagreed, “They be trouble, I smell it,” and she spat into a corner.

“I hear the stable boy say one of ‘em is too pretty to be a man, what with his big brown eyes, and fine features,” said another dreamily. Quietly Eloise took all this in from her corner, ledger forgotten.

“Pretty is it?” the kitchen helper chimed in, “Trouble comes from a pretty man!”

“Hard to please a man when he is prettier than you,” Margaret the cook added.

“And you’d know about that, would you now?”

“Me? Nay, a cooking woman is always beautiful,” Margaret said proudly.

“Oh, aye, covered in flour up to your elbows, and your skirts tied above the knees as you lean over the boards!” hooted the charwoman. All the women laughed with her.

“Exactly,” old Margaret clucked.

“Aye, stuffing his face with a free hand while stuffing the cook with his cock,” snorted the charwoman. The room howled with laughter.

“I’ve sharp knives here, Sarah, watch yourself,” Margaret said. The words were menacing, but her voice and expression were mild. Like the woman herself, Margaret’s attire bespoke durability, practicality and pride. The brown, homespun gown, well-worn from years of use, was meticulously mended. Her apron, too, was patched, reinforced, and washed more often than some people she knew. Anne and Eloise made a new one for Margaret some two years past. A beautiful thing it was, absorbent and quilted. Margaret wore it only on high feast days when the workers ate in the Great Hall.

“Margaret!” called a familiar voice. “Up to your old tricks again?” it was John assisting the children bring in some peat for the hearth. “I always loved working the kitchens. Women and wine.”

Several workers acknowledged him, through the din of chopping leeks, sizzling fat or the barking of orders.

John was an elderly man, married to Eloise’s nurse, one of the few people around to remember the kitchens without Margaret. The cook was hard working, and although she could let the strenuous manual labor fall to the younger staff members she enjoyed the satisfaction of dough between her fingers or a cleaver in her hand. She and Lady Anne could concoct a hearty banquet from a very frugal pantry.

“Greetings, my lady,” he said tipping his head to Eloise, “You’re getting an earful this morning.” Eloise smiled, cheeks still flushed pink, her blue-gray eyes dancing with merriment.

“Mercy, child!” Margaret called, “You still here? Off with you!”

“I’m not a child,” Eloise said indignantly. “I’m seventeen.”

“You’re a child until you’re married.”

“And if I never marry?”

Work stopped and the kitchen grew quiet with workers eager to hear this gossip. The heir to Dahlquin, not marry? How absurd. All ladies were to run a household and bear children.

“You’ll marry,” Margaret said flatly, “Or the abbey,” she scowled. “Until then you’re a child, my lady,” Margaret added with a hint of annoyance. “Now don’t keep your mother waiting. And don’t forget I need mint and borage.”

“And pot marigold,” called another worker.

“You’ll have us all in trouble,” John said, “Nurse too. So off with you.”

Eloise frowned, a prettier image of her intimidating father. Why did they say that, it hurt and wasn’t true. Her parents would never punish them for something she had done. Guilt on top of scolding, and she the sole heir to Dahlquin, how dare they? Shuffling out, her frown turned to a pout. They dared because…because she acted like a child, not a leader; and they cared about her, she reflected as she and her hounds left to join her mother in the herb garden.

The growing season was barely upon them, the pantries exhausted from the winter and Easter celebrations. The herb garden was vibrant and green with fresh parsley, mint and thyme. White flowered raspberry bushes fluttered with bees.

“Mama, do you think our guests have been to France?” Eloise asked, pinching back the rosemary. “Or Rome?” she continued before her mother had a chance to answer. “Might they have seen the Pope?”

“Mayhaps,” her mother started, yanking the dandylion and tossing it in the basket.

“Are they fair of face? What do you think?”

“Eloise,” Anne said putting down her digging stick. “They are strangers. We will feed them and offer shelter, as our Savior Jesus would command. Tonight we shall learn their purpose.”

“What fun,” Eloise explained, eyes closed picturing the banquet.

“There is much work to do between now and then,” her mother said. “Unless you would eat unseasoned mutton and stale turnips.

“Work, work, work,” Eloise grumbled, rocking back on her heels. This garden was laid out in a small sunny location. The stonewall was covered at one end by a rose, with exquisite pink flowers in summer, and large red hips in fall, so important through the winter months. The other end had a vine, which provided luscious grapes in fall and tender leaves in spring.

While larger gardens, orchards, vineyards and additional herbery were located outside the castle walls, throughout the adjoining countryside, this was the private retreat for the ladies of the castle.

Eloise filled a basket with blue borage flowers, passed it to a child who ran it to the kitchens, then started another basket. A refreshing treat, the flowers garnished most any dish, or dipped in warm honey were a pretty display on a pudding.

“Mama, how wonderful it must be to move about like our guests, to travel, see things, and have new experiences.” Eloise could not put words to the restlessness stirring her soul. “I never go anywhere.”

“It is safer here,” Anne said, moving to the chamomile.

“Aye,” Eloise said hesitantly, “But... it won’t…I can’t…” she stopped. Could she just continue on like this? Most girls her age were long since married off; Eloise was in no hurry to be sold into such domestic slavery. At least not with the prospects her father pursued. Argh! Men as old, or older than him, with titles and estates far from Dahlquin. The young ones were no better. Trading paternal confinement for a spouse’s. Plus, she had a reputation herself: A witch, an outspoken child, disrespectful, too educated, a heretic, skinny. Let’s not forget bad luck. She was betrothed twice before but both young princes of Leinster had died as children. A misfortune that still hung over Eloise and Dahlquin. She wove an herbal garland for her mother and herself.

“Eloise, this is what you were born to,” her mother said, indicating their garden and beyond. “Would you rather break your back in the fields, or work on it in a brothel? God has favored you.”

“And I am thankful, grateful,” she answered, “truly I am,” she placed the garland of rosemary, lavender and parsley seed pods upon her mother’s head. Cambridge or Paris are not so far away. Ireland should have a grand school,”

“Not today, I’ve too much on my mind with these strangers,” her mother interrupted. “University or abbeys are not the places for you.” This was an old argument between them. “Thank you,” she added touching the garland

“Your welcome. Dahlquin is my home, not a prison.” Eloise placed her own garland on her head.

“Prison? You go too far,” Anne countered, “what convict rides a fine courser to her heart’s content or plays with such dogs as you have? You know with privilege comes duty.” Anne continued to work the soil. “We have a banquet; you and I are to be hostesses. Please, Ellie, I need you well mannered and,” her mother dropped the rest. “Please,” she implored.

The women worked in silence until Anne indicated they were finished with the garden.

Eloise clapped her hands together to get the dirt off her gloves and tucked them into her apron. “Aye, the banquet!” she brightened, travel and education forgotten. “With handsome strangers, singing and dancing. Let’s go,” she chirped merrily.

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