Hearth of the Realm

     ”Young master, you crawl out of the wood pile right now before we have to knock it all apart to fetch you ourselves!"

      "Shall not, will not!"

      The Kau maidservant stamped her hoof. "We both have better things to be doing. And don't you dare muddy up our firewood!"

      "You'd have seen my tracks leading up to the pile if I'd been out in the rain!" The little Skeith poked his head out of the pile to stick his tongue out at the maid, and that was all she needed to give his collar a firm yank and make him topple fully out.

      "Just you wait," he cried, righting his tunic.

      "And just me wait for what now?" scolded the Kau. "For your lady mother mayhap to see what state you've got yourself into?"

      "What state is it this time, Grumblebug?" A broad Royal Skeith in an apron emerged from the nearest corridor like the bow of a ship ripping through the tides.

      Her eyes went over the little Skeith, who had fallen silent and stopped squirming, and the maid, who had just let out a sigh.

      The lady clacked her tongue. "Kitchen. Now. Sit yourself." She pointed to a corner.

      The boy shuffled out of the storeroom and perched himself atop a stool, well out of the way. He swung his feet moodily back and forth.

      Undercooks and bakers bustled to and fro in the vast room. Smells of oil, vinegar and fruit juices hung in the air. Sauces and dressings were prepared, knives skittered and scraped on cutting boards, in and out of rhythm, mincing vegetables into minuscule segments. The smell of fresh rising dough sometimes wafted from a cooler room. Smoke hung throughout the entire kitchen in spite of the chimneys, but the warm, dry air was much preferable to the thick soup of fog that reached into the castle every time a window was opened.

      Another maid rushed in. "Lady Gudrun? The scout from the mission is back, the one who was with the wagon party."

      The Skeith looked up from the dough she had just started to pound with her fists. "So soon?"

      "She is completely drenched, of course. There was a problem with the wagon, and they had to return."

      "No procedures, bring her right in here." Gudrun dusted her hands with a grim look while the maid rushed back out. "If problems have arisen so early, my kitchen knights, I daresay we are about to have many very wet, very grumpy travellers on our hands."

      The scout, a Pteri as sodden as a thrice-exploded Mortog, was quickly brought in, plied with hot beverages and bundled up between the roaring fireplaces like another dish to bake.

      The rain had picked up again soon after they had set off, she recalled. The bridge they hoped to cross had already sustained damage from the previous storm. Despite their best efforts on the road, treacherous mud pits had claimed a wheel, then the wagon's axle. The wagon would not make it to their destination in these conditions, so the travellers had decided to turn back.

      "But the rest of the knights were taking a shortcut and were supposed to meet us across the river," said the scout. "I could not spot them anywhere before I had to turn back. I hope they didn't try to cross the Lightwater, it was flooding very fast."

      "We will know soon. For now, we must prepare to welcome the rest of your party," said Gudrun. She began to dish out instructions.

      "Lady Gudrun, the meat has just been dressed, it won't be ready for hours," said the head cook, cautiously sharing her space with the mistress of the house. "We don't have much more at the ready, only enough for pies."

      "Go ahead with the pies, let's throw together some fritters with leftovers for those who will return sooner, and let's throw everything else that can be rounded up into a large pottage."

      The cook paused in the middle of sharing out ingredients. "Pottage, for the likely disgruntled sir knights? Won't we be disappointing them?"

      "Hungry, tired people will not be picky," said Gudrun. "It will be just what they used to eat as little ones. Don't go easy on the herbs."

      Pastry was unfurled, wrapped around meat, fruit, vegetables and any filling at hand, and soon began to sizzle over the fires. Cupbearers set out pitchers and arranged trays of drinks. The enormous cauldron was stirred diligently. Delicious smells of fruit-roasted meat wafted out into the castle. Loaves and pie crusts were laden atop a wooden paddle and filed through the hole that led into the great oven, nestled further against the main kitchen to isolate its tremendous heat. Gudrun worked among the staff, passing tools and ingredients back and forth, even the youngest helpers paying no mind to her status.

      She brought her pastry into the corner and settled on a bench. The little Skeith, long distracted by all the sounds and smells, looked up.

      "What's the matter with you, then, my Grumblebug?"

      "Brother is being a snotty dungberry!" he complained, bringing out the fresh outrage he had been preserving for hours.

      "What, more than usual?" Gudrun said without batting an eyelid.

      A giggle bubbled out of her younger son. "But now he won't do anything with me or take out any books or toys and he'll never take me outside again." He pouted. "Well, if he'd taken me outside as he'd promised I wouldn't have tried to sneak out his riding gear to try it myself, and then I might not have left it out in the rain and his best boots might not be full of mud."

      "Now I understand," said Gudrun. "Of course he would be angry, being the one having to clean up all of his gear."

      Her younger's eyes widened.

      "Is he not going to clean it?" she pressed.

      "I'm not sure."

      "Then, maybe the squire is the one who should be sulking about this. Though you can certainly assist in the sulking. At least your father is over in Brightvale, so he won't be making a mountain out of this Symolhill."

      The little Skeith continued to swing his feet moodily from his stool. Gudrun cupped his hand in hers, which was warm from the fireplace and smooth from the flour, and pushed a round honey pastry into his curled fingers.

      "While you work out how to apologise to your brother, help me with these twists. The workers and knights from the wagon party are back, we're settling them down with the appetisers as a little pick-me-up."

      Her son immediately took the tray from her and began to twist the rolls she had prepared with a well-practiced gesture. He paused every now and then for a comforting bite of crisp pastry and melting honey.

      "Lady Gudrun?" A steward leaned in, ears twitching in agitation. "The knight squad is at the gates. Well, they were there when the news began to travel. Now, they may have left their Whinnies to the stablehands already and may be at the doors."

      Gudrun threw the tray she was wielding into the arms of the nearest servant and sailed out of the kitchen, flour trailing from her apron like spume in her wake. Her son darted after her.

      Rounding a corner, he saw a sodden Draik so furious that the rain was practically steaming off them, and the leader of the first squad, who had already settled in the Great Hall.

      "We were nearly carried away by the river while trying to cross the ford to catch up with you, and you didn't even have the courtesy to warn us that the bridge had sunk?"

      "You would have known all about the bridge if you had the patience to travel with us on the main road instead of taking that shortcut of yours!"

      Gudrun charged between them, brandishing her rolling pin, and none too soon. "Don't you dare freeze on my doorstep," she barked, "get yourselves over to the fire before I drag you there myself."

      The fuming Draik wilted. "Lady Gudrun."

      She handed her rolling pin to the squad leader, who held it for her while she wiped her hands on her apron, before holding a hand out to the Draik captain, who bowed their head over it. The two guests then hurried into the Great Hall to take their seats.

      Back in the kitchens, the dishes were being brought out, with two people to lift each stretcher. The little Skeith carried his own tray of pastries and set it on the great table too, before going to sit by his mother, hiding in her ample arms.

      The knights and workers seated around the table, in various degrees of dampness, were dreadfully silent, some keeping their eyes low, others glaring, some playing with their knives.

      "And wash your hands!" shouted Gudrun, making several guests snap back to their table manners and the fingerbowls.

      Her younger son watched the guests begin to pile food onto their trenchers. He saw jaws masticating, eyes closing, and heard the deep sighs of satisfaction from a long-denied hunger being finally sated.

      Gudrun went around the table to enforce second helpings, called everyone pale and peaky without distinction, and squeezed their cheeks.

      When the thick pottage had finally been consumed in a reverent silence, and all the guests were leaning much further back on their seats, tongues loosened again, and each party described their journey. Back in the kitchen, the little Skeith heard them laugh at several anecdotes.

      "I wish I could make Brother come down to enjoy this too," he told his mother.

      "Oh, we know how to lure him." Gudrun had set aside a spare pie crust. "Fetch us a jar of Voidberry preserves, will you, Skarl? He won't be able to resist."

      The younger Skeith's ears perked up. He would bring Hagan a freshly baked Voidberry pie right in the season when the fruit were a rare treat. Everything would be easier on a full stomach.

     *****

      "Your Highness?" asked the steward, as a tourist grinned expectantly at the throne.

      A grunt.

      "This jokester is out, then."

      Skarl snapped his fingers and tapped the steward's shoulder. "Get them something from the kitchen," he muttered, leaning his face away from the front of the room. A portrait of a broad regal Skeith smiled down at him.

      "But that joke was graded very low?"

      "Don't let them out before they've had a share of something to eat."

      Skarl faced back towards the next courtiers or jesters - the line between them was sometimes very fine. He had never been the brilliant one. He could not pretend that his work was easy. His policies had been questionable and duly questioned many times.

      Still, for everyone, it was easier on a full stomach. If he had ever learned anything of value, it was his mother's ways.

     The End.