Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 18. Chapter 18: "Did you hear me?"

Chapter 18: "Did you hear me?"

The beating heart of any castle was the suite of rooms known collectively as the kitchens. And the driving impulse of any kitchen worker's day were the preparations needed to pull together another successful dinner, for like the kitchens of the fortress, dinner formed the heart of the castle's daily routine. The great feast was a state affair that happened in the hours before twilight, and where the lord and lady of the place could impress dignitaries, noble retainers, family, and all the many courtly gadabouts who inhabited the realm or fiefdom. Ironically, this late afternoon meal often was not when people actually ate – the higher one's station, the less one could appear 'hungry' in public – so the evening meal of supper, sat down to in the quiet of a private chamber at eight or nine o'clock, was when nobles, especially noble ladies, could sup their full with only their spouses in attendance.

The kitchens were laid out logically; a set of rooms graduated from hot to cold. The great fires of the actual kitchen, where the roasts were done, was tempered by an intermediary space for the perpetration of made-dishes and a line of ranges for heating soups and sauces, poaching fish, and preparing vegetables. The third room – farthest removed from the turning spits of the fireplace – was the cold room. Here, oils, fats, butter, cheese, eggs and milk were stored for serving, and here sweet dishes were prepared with gelatin or Irish moss.[1]

Off of these three rooms were smaller support spaces, like the pantry, the scullery, and several storerooms.

Soon the great hall would be full, so the kinetic impulse to get dinner ready coursed through the kitchens like the path of a river down a mountain slope. The great flux of activity needed a leader, and Signor Massimo Gelli, Maestro di Cucina, was general to his culinary troops. They trusted him implicitly, and he led them into daily battle against the common enemy – a poor performance at dinner in the Knights' Hall, and he was not going to let that happen.

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Maestro Gelli strode into the kitchen with purpose. Dinner was going to be a success today, no matter what. The chef was a Lombard, about fifty years of age, and not one to joke with.

He secured his apron and felt his scabbard-like coltellera jostle at his waist; for as a knight goes into battle with his sword, a chef commands his kitchen camp with his knives strapped to his side. As he strapped it on, he let his mind wonder to thoughts of a commotion that had overtaken the castle in the early hours of the morning, but he shut out that 'happening' as having no bearing on the campaign he must organize and win for the day.

His staff gave him timid sidelong glances as he stepped to the centre of the room and paused there with his hands on his hips.

To his right, one cook was doing his job by lifting up great spoonfuls of jus from the drippings pan and basting row upon row of roasting meat. The back wall of the fireplace was bolted with flattened iron bars to better radiate heat back onto the turning vittles. Gelli glanced to the left, at the side of the fire sat a spit jack boy. He was peeking at the chef from behind a wooden partition that functioned as a heat shield, and his job was to sit by the side and keep the long skewers of grass-fed beef[2] and whole suckling pigs in continual circum-motion. The maestro let a small smile come to his face as he considered that these boys – mostly aged seven or eight – developed heat tolerance like no other, and could wile away the hours in quiet observation of the rest of the main kitchen's activity. The Signor Gelli would know, as decades ago this was exactly how his career began.

He let the smile wash off of his face; his lowly beginnings as a spit jack boy was intelligence his 'enemies' did not need to know.

Gelli glanced around to other parts of the room. Cooks were stationed at great preparation tables readying more joints for roasting, while others deboned and chopped raw meat for raised pies.

Raising his nose, he could scent the air of his kitchen and know all was well by the familiar and heady smell of hot spices – like pepper and ginger – crackling on the skin of the roasting main courses. Satisfied that his presence was duly felt, he headed to the next room.

He entered the second, cooler kitchen, proud that he had progressed from mere boy in the service of roasting cooks, to be the great storehouse of knowledge that he had become. The grey hairs on top of his head each seemed to have been fought for and won in a battle to retain mastery over a 'delicacy' or a 'set-piece.' These preparations – elaborate and calculated to contain a balance of aimed-for healthful alimentation – were far different from the primal application of heat to flesh, as the art of roasting ultimately boiled down to.

In this kitchen, a line of ranges were built against one wall as a standing-height counter of brick. Cut out hollows below the open burners allowed for fuel to be added, and now several pans and braisière were simmering away.

The chef's presence was met by a muffled gasp. The staff collectively looked lively, and focused more intently on the respective tasks at hand.

Gelli noticed that at one table a pair of scullery maids were working under the direction of the vegetable cook to de-thorn brutal looking stalks of cardoons as long as their arms. This close relative of the thistle and artichoke was only grown to eat the tender inner cores that were like massive ribs of celery, but it had to be prepared just right.

He went over to the range and found how the cardoon slices were being treated – they were slowly elixing in a great kettle with white water. The chef pulled out the spoon from his apron pocket, and dipped it in. As he lifted it up to cool it and eventually taste, he considered the bianco speciale per legumi to be one of the great weapons in his armoury. It was a speciality of Piedmont and consisted of a savoury bath of light stock, olive oil, flavoured with garlic, anchovy with fine wheat starch ground together. Used to keep vegetables colourful and appetizing, it was especially important to extract the last bitterness from the cardoon.

He sipped the white water. It was delicious.

Satisfied, he put his spoon away and drifted over to another table where a skilled young man was raising a pie shell. No mould was needed, for like the skilled hands of a potter, the man could coax the pastry to stand two or three hand widths high, and make it sturdy enough to withstand baking with a filling of the chef's ragu of minced game meat and mushrooms.

He moved on to inspect the activity at the other end of this same table. Here a woman used a mortar and pestle for a unique purpose. The chef raised his hand to stay her grinding for a moment, and then dipped his spoon in for a taste. The ivory-colored batter was delicious – the preparation of parsnip mousse thickened with ground pine nuts – was going to be used to form the Ryalle. The Maestro intimated to the woman that all was in order and left her to her task.

As he headed on to the next room, he paused at the range again. The Ryalle mixture he had just tasted would be spoon-formed into dumplings, poached in milk, and served as garnish to fat slices of sturgeon. He used his nose and located the braising pan he was searching for. He lifted the lid, and his face was pleasantly bathed in the aromas of that fish poaching in brown ale. He re-placed the lid, and left them in peace.

Entering the cold room, the chef suddenly felt the pressure of the time restraints again along with the noticeable temperature drop.

He went to the armadio frigidario, which was a wooden cabinet hanging on the wall covering a buried niche in the chilling stone walls. The Maestro carefully opened the doors and, as no one could see him, smiled his full. Before him were three parti-coloured blanc-mangers in layers of green, red and white. These set-pieces would grace the second table, or the course with the roasts, and be admired by all. Sweet dishes, they were made by soaking and grinding almonds into a milk that could be sweetened, thickened with arrow root, divided and coloured, and moulded into elaborate shapes.

The man's nose gaily filled with the aromas of marzipan, and he slowly closed the doors.

Masking his good mood, he looked behind his back and strode over to a preparation table. Here a girl was making one of the lord's especial favourites; Leche Lumbarde was a sweetmeat of dates plumped in wine, cooked in sugar until a paste could be kneaded with ginger and sweet spices like cinnamon and cardamom. From there it was formed into logs, rolled in toasted breadcrumbs and sliced into rounds.

Content with the taste of one, Signor Gelli could chew with a full smile blazing. Now he felt assured that this afternoon's dinner was going to be another victory won on the long campaign of his career.

Like a great generalissimo in a triumphal parade, the final course would be prepared by him before his lord and guests: a great twenty-egg omelet that his lordship could instruct on how to finish. If savory was required, Gelli would make an ad hoc civé of spring onions, chopped veal and chicken livers; if sweet was wanted, the chef had a jam pot full of the conserves of last autumn's quinces. Either way, the dish would be finished with a sprinkling of sugar and a dabbing of gold leaf, for as a near-medico, the Maestro di Cucina knew such additions would bring out the dish's most healthful conditions for the diners.

It also helped him to think that the sparkling glint of the whisper-thin gold could display all the pride and gloating that the professional's chef's demeanour could not.

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"How was your day, dear?" Lord Laszlo asked his wife in intimate ease.

It was after eight at night, and they supped sequestered in a private chamber, at a small table, without benefit of any servants.

Lady Gretza divided her attention between her food and husband – her stomach rumbled with hunger.

"My day, Milord, was blessed with unexpected news." She guided her spoon away from her to scoop up a pleasant portion of split-pea soup.

"Ah," Laszlo suddenly remembered. "Speaking of news, I do not know if you have heard, but apparently my man Stefan Karolyi drank himself to death last night."

"No, I had not heard." And by her actions of continuing to eat, she showed she did not particularly care either.

"Yes. He was found face-up on his bed this morning, dead, reeking of alcohol and piss, and with his throat clogged with vomit – "

Lady Gretza clinked her spoon loudly to indicate she could do without the details.

"Well, anyway," the lord of the place continued on a more cautionary note. "There were no signs of foul play, and when I saw the man for myself, there even seemed to be the hint of a smile lingering on his lips." He mused quietly, "Odd that we can sometimes look so content in death…"

Lady Gretza sniped with a harsh tone to knock her husband out of his reverie. "Well my dear, I for one will not miss the man."

He leaned in closer to the edge of the table, drawing his face closer to the candlelight. He trained suspicious eyes on his wife's face, looking for any hint of deception.

She dabbed unconcernedly at her mouth with a napkin. "He was crude," she explained. "And sometimes cruel as well to the well-diggers. I think their progress will be speedier under the auspices of a new overseer."

Laszlo reeled internally for a moment. A question appeared and receded like a shadow does in a nightmare. He gulped down the inquiry he dared not ask: 'Did you do it? Did you kill him?' Instead, he sat back on his chair and folded his arms. A roundabout means to acquire more insight into the matter crossed his mind. A slight smile raised the centre of his upper lip as he asked, "I wonder if you have seen it as well, dear?"

"Seen what, My Lord?"

"I wonder if you have observed how a special friendship seems to be developing between the two slaves."

She set her spoon down and reached over for a slice of left-over Leche Lumbarde. Lady Gretza smiled seductively and extended the sweet morsel over the table towards her husband's mouth.

He brought himself forward to receive it from her fingers, while he heard her say softly, "I have listened to tales that say Turkish men will often form particular and intimate bonds with one another."

Lord Laszlo leaned back somewhat amazed. He chewed with vigour, swallowed quickly and asked, "You don't mean to suggest that you think those reprobates are being physical, do you?" For no apparent reason, the demure and handsome face of his 'favourite' flashed before his vision; soon Louis and his shy smile faded onto the hard face of his wife before him now.

"My dear husband," she said with a cold air. "Please do not act so naïve. If they are having sex – and I have no way of knowing – they would not be the first, nor will they be the last men in love who decide to make love as well."

In a flat mutter, he mumbled, "You speak of love..?"

His wife's tone turned tender as she picked up her spoon and continued to sup. Between sips, she said, "Yes, Laszlo. I do. I believe that is what you are witnessing coming into being between them. And, why not? They are isolated and deprived of family and diversion; if they have any liking for one another, intimacy will be a natural possibility for them to explore."

Before his mind's eye, he considered the sensuality exhibited by his Steward of the Basin while he was performing his task of relieving Laszlo's excess of seed. The young man would gain a determined glint in his grey eyes and train his gaze intently upon his master. Many times the boy's relentless desire to fulfil his duty, made Laszlo helplessly latch onto Louis. At those intense moments before physical climax, he would cast fleeting glances down to see the page fingering his own erect member through the boy's tights.

He would relish the sight – realizing he was pleasing the young man as well – and then let loose. Laszlo's panting moans of release would bathe themselves on the boy's neck and reenter the lord's consciousness of scent. Now he finds the mere whiff of Louis an intoxicating prenomen to his pleasure.

Laszlo allowed himself to admit that his interest in the youth was much more than just passing. But was it love?

He blinked, and almost in contrast, felt there was something about Gretza's sweet and compassionate looks at that precise moment which spoke of the difference between his feelings for his wife and his page.

So far, his regard for Louis had been merely personal, while in terms of his wife, part of her allure had always been the gathering together of state affairs and private ambitions into an inextricable union. The events leading up to his brother becoming king also resulted in Laszlo's marriage to a shy, pretty, but well-connected young woman; the political and personal for them were intimately connected. He gazed at her face once more and felt there was nostalgia in her looks. Laszlo wished they could go back to the early days of their married life, and he became lost in a pool of memory on how it all transpired.

A mere five years ago, neither he nor his brother relished time spent with their father. Pater János had been a tempestuous and vindictive power seeker, but the court in Buda loved a hero – no matter how brutal – so his striking out to this land and 'cleansing' it for colonization by Hungarians was received in the capital as celebratory news. Laszlo was born out of a conscious decision by his father, one that calculated the woman he was legitimacy married to was not going to be able to bear him a son, so his wife selected one her ladies-in-waiting, and in the manner of Abraham's spouse, embraced the newborn as her own. Five years later, he had a brother, and Laszlo was told that he'd always have a place in the family, but that his young sibling was the one the law would recognize over every claim he might make in his father's name. Even still, Laszlo did not feel ostracized or hostile to his brother Mátyás, only jealous that the young one was coddled, and kept at home with their mother, while the older boy was strapped to János' side for military training.

He was suddenly returned in his memory to the chamber that day with his brother and stepmother.

I remember – he thought – the day had been a warm one. We boys had just returned from riding, and we found our mother was sobbing. I knelt by her side, and was the first one to hear that our father János had died – out here, in this castle.

Chaos erupted through the palace at Buda, and I thought it must be related to my family's personal news.

The grey-haired chamberlain burst in, and hothead that I had been, drew my sword and told him to let our mother mourn in peace.

"My Lord, you misunderstand."

"Misunderstand what! My father is dead, leave us alone."

"This is state business, young man, for not only is János dead but so is the king. He died suddenly last night, and that German-born queen of his has run off with both the king's infant son and the holy crown of Saint Stephen. She's intending to flee to Frankfort to have the Holy Roman Emperor crown the baby as King of Hungary." His voice rose to flashing shouts of anger. "She wants the Emperor to appoint her as regent with absolute control!"

I watched my stepmother rise, for she seemed to know the import of the news immediately. "Does this mean..?" she asked expectantly.

The chamberlain bowed, "My Lady, it means the Hungarian lords do not support her, or the claim to the throne she makes for the child."

He glanced at me, and my stepmother's arm reached out for mine.

The chamberlain continued, "We need a king on the throne and not a mewling baby with a German nursemaid leading this country."

My stepmother's hand slipped down my back as if intending to push me forward; a radiantly proud smile lifted her features, and I at least understood. The kingship was going to be offered, offered to…

The man then turned to my sibling.

My stepmother's smile turned to one of instant concern, for the chamberlain genuflected before my fifteen-year old brother.

"Mátyás," he said. "Your father was a great man; he would be our choice for king, but we are confident that you, as his son, can lead us against the Turks in his glorious name. "Be our king."

My brother assumed the throne, and our mother made quick work of finding us politically strong marriages. Mátyás was paired with the teenage daughter of the dead king, and I was engaged to Gretza, whose family held one of the realm's most powerful cavalry units.

On our first night together, Gretza had acted coy and retiring from behind her lace bedclothes, but she soon had me forgetting I knew nothing about women. Her hands, her kisses – both on my mouth and roving over my entire body – drove me insane with desire.

I penetrated her, and her ecstasies made me consummate my marriage vow with roaring pulsations of pleasure, but it was always a union of political power and personal affection. It was fate that had brought her to me, and so I fancied that it was my fate as well to be matched to the woman I fell in love with. If state affairs had not collided with private ones, I never would have been wedded to her – my brother becoming king had presented much personal joy to my heart.

I was her thrall, and accepted it as natural. What man in this world is not captured by his woman's void for him to fill?

After the joint nuptials of my brother and I, my stepmother and king decided that I should come out to hold this territory, as it was the most important mission in the kingdom.

So how did Louis fit into this picture..? Laszlo began to recognize it with subjective regard; he realized that although different and more egalitarian, the tenderness he felt for Louis was as real as that he had for his wife. And in the young man was a chance to relax, to be purely personal with a loved one, while with his wife, her ambition would always be there as the third party to their union, and what could be more political than that?

"Laszlo," Lady Gretza gently repeated. "Did you hear me?"

"What..? No, I...I da-did not hear you."

"I said that Razvan wrote from Targoviste. His mission has been wildly successful, my dear. Your plan is moving forward and coming to magnificent fruition. Within a fortnight, the current prince of Walachia will be overthrown, and you will have a new and powerful ally to build a joint army with. It will be a force strong enough to march on Buda – "

He cut her off. "When does he arrive?"

"In a fortnight, dear."

"Then we must make all the na-necessary arrangements."

"Yes dear," she said as she slid a slice of date log between her arrogantly leering lips.

Lord Laszlo watched her chew, and secretly dreaded the power this woman held over him, and over the last remnant of his better reason as well.

Special thanks to ColumbusGuy for beta-reading the food section, and for vetting the recipes