Katherine sat with him and the Peace-Weaver too.
‘He’s very ill, isn’t he?’
Imbolc nodded and said, ‘Sicker even than he seems, my dear. This day has been coming for very many years. He has fought for others, now he must fight for himself and others must help.’
‘How?’ said Katherine. ‘What can I do?’
Imbolc smiled.
‘Give of yourself, my love, that is all you can ever do and it is what one such as Jack is most in need of.’
‘But I’d do anything for him.’
‘It’s not the intention that matters, nor even the action, it is far deeper than that. Not in Jack’s case. Give of yourself and he will be healed.’
81
ILLNESS
But whatever Katherine did, however hard she tried, Jack did not get better. It didn’t seem to be the crossbow wound, which had healed quite well, but something else.
Not even with the advice and help of the wyfkin in the village, however gifted in the healing arts. Not one of their ointments, infusions or potions, handed down from mother to daughter through the centuries, had any effect.
Jack did not get better.
If anything he got worse.
His pain was immense and though he bravely muffled his cries his suffering was plain for all to see. His formerly robust looks thinned and aged, his hair grew lank, pustules appeared on his face as if he was diseased, his joints ached.
Strangely, despite the danger of further harm through his open sores and wounds, they stayed clean and showed no infection. Yet no sooner had one wound begun to look healed than another would appear, as if beneath the hurt and damaged skin a terrible anger raged.
His condition was a mystery and its cure a puzzle beyond the community’s combined skill.
Mr Kipling could do no more than play kind host, to him and to those who came visiting to help. He could read to Jack, he and Stort could talk to him, Katherine could lie by his side when he would allow it and try to sooth him, but that stratagem often caused more pain than comfort and he would grow angry and tell her to stop hurting him and leave.
Though she remembered his patience with her own moods when her mother died, and his ability to stay calm in the face of her rages, she found it was not so easy to do the same. She felt hurt by his tirades against her, angry at his unfairness, yet guilty that she felt those things.
His illness hung over Wardine like a cloud. Even on the warmest days of Summer, when families of swans drifted down the Severn as they always had, and fish rose in slow-turning pools near the reeds and yellow flag, Wardine in those days was not summery at all.
82
REGIMEN
Yet there were bright spots and other, lighter, things to talk about. One of them was Lord Festoon and his chef and their diet. The two had taken up residence in premises alongside the river once occupied by one of the village’s long-established fish traders and processors.
The business had been run from the ground floor, and these echoing and derelict chambers were now occupied by Lord Festoon. Parlance took over the residential suite above.
The place smelt strongly of fish, which, strangely, Festoon welcomed, because the mixed odours of tench, chub, bleak and roach, shot through with a hint of rotten salmon, served to dampen his appetite.
It also encouraged him to take fresh air along the property’s old wharf, which fronted the Severn. There Festoon perambulated when he wished, propping himself up on the various fish barrels, mooring posts and even the small hand-crane when shortness of breath and faintness overtook him.
The all-important kitchen, a crude affair compared to the vast and well-appointed one in Brum, was on the ground floor and accessible from above by narrow back-stairs which Parlance used. The entrance from Festoon’s quarters was locked against his craving for snacks at midnight, and at every other hour too.
Parlance knew of course that in the early days of his new regime his master would be too weak to get as far as the kitchen door, let alone bang on it for attention. But the day would come when he would have strength enough – a day the chef would welcome with all his heart – and Parlance wished for no slippage meanwhile.
So the door was locked and Festoon’s now frugal but sensibly nutritious fare was carried to him by way of the street door, round the side and through what had been the boat repair shop. Or, on warm days and for luncheon, the food would be taken to a table on the wharf which Parlance created out of the dagger board of a rotten skiff, nailed rather crudely to a sawn-off post within easy reach of a rotund tar barrel of sufficient size and strength to accommodate Festoon’s bottom and his weight.
Some things the chef did not let go, and one of them was his chef’s hat, his white jacket and his chequered trousers. Another was the standard of his presentation and service, which remained impeccable, even if all that his master’s breakfast consisted of was a solitary coddled egg sprinkled with ashes of bay leaf.
Naturally the good folk of Wardine-on-Severn had never seen such goings-on in their lives, and the thrice-daily sight of the chef emerging from the front entrance of the not-so-humble river premises was a matter of astonishment, interest and, eventually, delight.
Wardine wyfkin were not slow in coming forward when it came to matters of hearth and home. That a male should cook at all was amazing to them, but that he should plainly relish doing so, and do it well, was disturbing too.
It was not long before news of his latest dish became the village’s daily fare and the question of what he cooked and the ingredients, and soon his methods too, a matter of debate and even instruction. One of his talents, as it must be for any chef, was sourcing ingredients, but the greater skill lies in recognizing the potential in new things and finding creative ways to draw out and blend flavours of one thing in new ways with another.
The need for ingredients to vary the High Ealdor’s diet, and keep him on course to becoming lean yet not too hungry, brought Parlance into creative contact with the villagers and those from the wider hinterland who serviced their needs. Very soon the fact that Wardine was playing host to a demanding chef who cooked for the High Ealdor himself, and one who knew not only his onions but his wild garlic, stimulated folk in the vicinity to send him gifts of special foods to try and so, hopefully, to buy.
One day Parlance found Festoon sitting at his table eating a bonbon.
‘No, my lord, you may not eat that, desist at once! If, as I fear, you have eaten several already . . .’
‘Take pity, Parlance, they appeared upon my table as if sent from heaven, accompanied by the flowers of eglantine woven into a heart upon a base of rose-scented marzipan and cream . . . how could I not eat them?’
‘No doubt they were sent by a maiden lady or scheming widow seeking your hand in marriage, my lord!’ Parlance declared. ‘How many, my lord, how many?’
‘This the last, Parlance, and look, I hurl it away!’
‘How many?’
‘Eleven before it? Only eleven.’
‘Eleven!!! No supper for you tonight, my lord, and it is doubtful if you deserve breakfast either, which is a pity because I had planned a special treat.’
‘A treat?’ said Festoon most miserably. ‘What treat?’
‘Brot, my lord. Brot superlative, brot magnificent.’
‘Brot?’ whispered Festoon. ‘But I have not had even a thin slice of that for a week.’
‘No, you have not. Nor may I allow you this either, though . . .’
‘Parlance, explain!’ said Festoon in a persuasive way, for he recognized excitement when he saw it, and a wish to share a culinary discovery.
‘I have found a new source of brot which has put me in a dither, for it is very many years since I tasted brot better than my own.’
Festoon saw his opportunity at once.
‘I daresay, my old friend, that you might appreciate a second opinion of this brot, but of course it would need someone who has discrimination and judgement and far as we are from Brum it i
s unlikely, unfortunately, that you will find such a person here. That is a pity, and though I myself would normally oblige I cannot under your regimen and so you must remain in a state of uncertainty about the quality of the brot you have discovered.’
‘I must, my lord,’ said Parlance, weakening. He was desperate to have his opinion confirmed by the one person in Englalond whose taste he knew to be true.
‘Perhaps if you left a tiny piece of this brot . . .’
‘No, my lord.’
‘. . . a crumb or two, a dry crust, a . . .’
‘I must not, really I must not . . .’
‘Nobody would actually know . . . if you left the kitchen door open for a little, and that brot upon a board with a knife to cut it with, would not . . .’
‘Breakfast, my lord,’ cried Parlance giving in, ‘you shall have it then, but if and only if you promise never to eat such bonbons again!’
It was agreed, and when breakfast came they tasted the brot together, with choice dripping made from roast swans’ thighs to help it go down.
For the briefest of moments it was like the old days. They were in the seventh heaven of the gourmand, tasting something new and, as it turned out, something truly great.
‘Parlance,’ declared Festoon, ‘this is a brot beyond all brots, even the one you bake upon my birthday! Who made it?’
‘A lady I am told, but more I know not. This loaf was left along with others and I have no way of knowing who made it.’
‘Seek out that information, dear friend, for she is a jewel.’
‘I will.’
‘When you find her, Parlance, whatever the circumstances, if she be free, then propose to her there and then, for trust me a wyf who makes such brot as this will be a wyf in all things and a wyf indeed.’
‘Yes, my lord, but she is probably already married.’
‘Probably is not certainly and I have made a command, Parlance, not a suggestion or request. You understand?’
‘I do.’
Lord Festoon did not err again, less because of the strictures of his chef than because tasting that extraordinary brot, and the fact that of late he had slept better and woken feeling brighter, reminded him that good food and gluttony were poor bedfellows.
He redoubled his efforts to follow the regimen Parlance imposed on him, continuing to eat less, feeling steadily better, discovering that his clothes needed regular taking in and that his perambulations were more frequent, longer and more satisfying.
Such was his improvement that he even began to think more of others’ health than his own, and so it was that following a distressing visit from Katherine concerning Jack’s decline he decided to visit the patient and see what he could do to help.
Wardine had seen some strange things of late, but nothing quite so memorable as Lord Festoon, with Katherine on one side and Parlance on the other, without his hat, for this was a social call, making their slow and careful way up its cobbled main street. It was quite a hike, and at the end, as they neared Mr Kipling’s house, a suddenly steep one.
Folk had gathered and indeed followed the progress, calling out encouragement, making obeisance of one kind and another and generally making it very clear to the High Ealdor that in their village at least there was much liking and support for him.
Some even cheered when he finally reached the door of Mister Kipling’s house, who opened it willingly, sorry only that Stort was absent just then from the village and unable to witness the great event.
Lord Festoon was exhausted from his effort but he undoubtedly looked thinner, and that made him look the tall hydden he actually was. He had a very long way to go if he was to get back to normality, but he now looked and walked as a High Ealdor should.
Jack, however, looked wretched.
His open wounds were livid and suppurating, his muscles weak from inactivity and his eyes rather sunken. He looked pale, he was evidently in great pain and it seemed to Festoon he had given up hope of recovery.
Festoon said nothing at first, visibly shocked. But then he had an idea. As Parlance had helped him, could the chef not help Jack? Seen from a certain perspective after all, food is medicine, and as its master Parlance might be perceived as a healer.
It was a stroke of genius on Festoon’s part.
Parlance took on the assignment and agreed that after due time and consultation with the patient he would attempt a diagnosis and cure.
This brought the prospect of an end to the cloud over Wardine’s summer that was Jack’s illness, and such new hope and excitement for a cure that Wardiners could not wait for Parlance to pronounce upon his patient.
83
SCRUMPET
Parlance finally did so at the end of July as Summer reached its height.
He would have liked to make his statement more privately, but in Wardine that was difficult, and so he did it standing on a fish barrel in The Square.
The crowd was so great that Katherine took up a place to one side in the sun, sitting on a little wall with a female carrying a large basket. The scent of brot that came from it was so delicious and alluring that it seemed to reach right inside her. It calmed her, made her close her eyes, made her almost forget why she was there.
Until she found herself saying aloud, ‘The trouble is that the one person who should be here isn’t here!’
‘And who’s that?’ asked the woman with the fresh-made brot. She was a female in her forties, plain but with the strong hands of an experienced brot-maker.
‘Jack,’ said Katherine.
‘You know him then?’
Katherine nodded and told her a little about Jack and hinted at something more about themselves.
The brot-maker’s eyes were bold, her forearms formidable, her bust large, her bearing powerful.
‘I loved someone once,’ she declared, ‘but it didn’t work out.’
‘I didn’t say I loved him exactly.’
‘But you do, don’t you? I expect you won’t admit it, like I didn’t until it was too late.’
‘But Jack knows . . .’
‘Does he? Really? If ever I meet someone to love I’ll tell him again and again with every loaf of brot I make, each one, every day, over and over.’
‘But I . . .’
‘I’d tell him, if I had my time again. Second chances don’t often happen.’
Katherine thought of everything they’d been through recently and realized that though she thought her feelings had been recognized by Jack, she’d never actually told him how she felt. She was interrupted in her reverie when her neighbour tapped her on the arm.
‘What’s Mister Parlance look like?’
‘Like that!’ said Katherine, pointing at Parlance, who was on the fish barrel and trying to get everyone’s attention. ‘Why?’
‘I’m one of those who have made him some brot it seems.’
She nodded towards a group of wyfs of various ages, sizes and bulks who were standing about with brot to show Parlance, some with but one or two to show, others, like her friend, with a basketful. ‘It seems he’s looking for the wyf who made a particular brot to do her the favour of asking for more for the Head Ealdor, so here I am in the hope he’ll like my wares. But . . . that’s him?’
Katherine nodded.
‘He’s a fine-looking gentleman but very much on the short side. Is he wed?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Katherine.
‘In these parts eligible gentlemen do not appear often, so I must tend to my need as you must to yours. Go to!’
But Katherine did not immediately ‘go to’ but stayed where she was to watch what the brot-maker did.
The brot-maker promptly pushed her way through the crowd and, arriving very near Parlance as he was about to speak, she pulled aside the cloth over her basket to allow the fresh scent of her creations to waft its heady way to the chef’s delicate nose.
Meanwhile the crowd hushed as Parlance finally started to speak.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said
, ‘after taking the patient’s history . . .’
He paused, his nose twitching.
‘. . . after, I say, examining him carefully and observing him as I might observe very carefully the basting of a joint of meat or, more to the point, the slow rising of a thrice-kneaded cake or, even, the fermentation of a plum wine, or even . . .’
His nose twitched more and a look of ecstasy crossed his face which seemed at odds with the subject matter of his speech, ‘Nay, most especially, the baking of simple brot, I have come to my conclusion . . . but . . . but . . .’
The look of ecstasy was replaced by one of determination and purpose such as might settle on a great chef’s countenance when he had a new dish in his sights, but that day Parlance’s purpose seemed different.
‘But I must interrupt myself, step down from this box and ask a question. Who baked that brot?’
But Katherine had no interest in the answer and no reason to linger more. The brot-maker had given her the answer she needed concerning Jack, and she knew now what to do.
She turned from the crowd and started back up the street towards Mr Kipling’s house, where Jack lay suffering. A long time ago he had saved her life and ever since she had seemed to feel his strong arms around her, right round her, making her feel safe.
Now it was her turn to help him, and she didn’t need people telling her how to do it, she needed to find that out for herself.
She knocked lightly on Mr Kipling’s door and getting no reply went inside. The room where Jack lay was darkened and he was half asleep.
She went to his side and looked at him. He was so thin, so hollowed out by what had happened to him.
‘Jack,’ she whispered, ‘Jack . . . ?’
Her voice roused him.
‘I know where you want to be, but I . . .’ she whispered.
She reached a hand to his and he responded for the first time since he had been in Wardine.