Interview With a Gardener

About a fortnight after Jevan Auvray’s unexpected arrival, Old Rivens made his way down a cobbled path to seat himself in her ladyship’s herber. He began spring the same way every year: sitting on a garden bench, pipe in hand, looking out over his domain and formulating his plan of campaign. He had prophesied the remarkably wet spring, and had been proved correct. Now he fretted over the green shoots that refused to arrive. He loved training up the young sprouts, shielding them from wind and nurturing their growth; they were like his children. For half an hour he sat puffing purple rings of spoke, and he had almost resolved upon a series of drainage ditches when he caught the sound of footsteps. He turned around and saw a dark figure coming through some trees, walking in his direction. Rivens squinted until the figure resolved itself into the young master himself. Rivens hastily knocked out the pipe and adjusted his brown cap (resembling a squashed mushroom) atop his thinning white hair. The young man came closer and turned onto the cobbled path, clearly aiming for Rivens’ seat, and Rivens leapt up to give a bow. “Morning, Master, is there summat I can do for ye?”

charles thomas of camp tuffit, a photo by aroid on Flickr.

The Heir Arrives

Clearly, something had gone wrong. Lights shone through every loophole, and the hazy outlines of men and women ran hither and thither as if racing each other to do the most work. The three newcomers on the scene stood still in the gateway, wondering how Stephen Jambe could be sweeping the courtyard at that hour of the evening, then quickly stepping aside to let Bartholomew and little Elstan carry in a dripping side of pork. Some of the cotters worked quietly, with heads bowed and footsteps muffled, while Luveday stood in the kitchen doorway shouting incoherent orders at the top of her lungs and Gunnora seemed to be on the verge of hysterics as she tried to direct dozens of servants in their duties.

Moonrise - Waiting, a photo by Conanil on Flickr.

Udeline Swetalday was the first one to notice Cecily, Bess, and Milo. She lumbered her great bulk over in their direction, clapping her hands together and sending great clouds of fine flour into the air. “Ah, there ye are at last! Where’ve ye been all this time? The kitchens are short-staffed, I’ll ‘ave ye know, and that boy had better make his way to the stables before he’s dragged there by force.”

Milo jerked in the direction of the stables but Cecily kept a firm grip on his hand. “Short-staffed? What on earth do you mean? Everyone should be going home at this time of evening.”

“Ye mean ye haven’t heard?” Udeline rolled her eyes and heaved her massive chest. “Ach. When ye want to keep summat quiet the news spreads like a wildfire, but when ye can’t spare the time to tell everybody in Carrellshire the same news ten times over….”

“What’s happened, Udeline?”

Making an Acquaintance

Chapter 2: Anything is Possible

That was a long winter. Keening winds brought snow and more snow, and the fields and roads were buried until it was a struggle to walk even the short distance from Whitcrowe to Granton castle, much less to Camberton. With the gardens lying fallow under snow and ice, Cecily spent her working days cleaning, cooking, and serving food at table, while Alis remained at home, often gathered with her friends for company. In the evenings the cotters came together in one another’s houses for the old men to tell tales, the younger men to whittle, the women to sew, and the little ones to sit staring into the hearth flames. 

medieval fireplace, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

Cecily spent many hours kneeling at her mother’s feet, her hands doing some kind of work while her mind was miles away, following the trail of a valiant knight perhaps, the adventures of a princess in disguise, a curious sailor bound for the world’s end, or glorious battles from ancient times. These were the stories that her father had told her in front of winter fires long turned to smoke and ash. She remembered begging him to tell her the same tales over and over again until she had memorized them and could repeat back his every word. Every winter, as soon as the flurry of the Feast had ended, she brought back the Old Tales from the corners of her mind and dwelt upon them, spinning her own dreams like spiders’ webs through the long, frosty nights. She wondered what it would be like to be truly great, to have lords and ladies bowing in homage for the wonderful things you’d done, to be able to tell wide-eyed children about your fabulous adventures across icy oceans, to be talked of in solars and dining halls across the country—across the world. Cecily would stare into the embers until her golden bubble was burst by some outbreak of laughter or a careless foot. Then she would be back in the cottage again, and her fingers would work once more.

Though springtime was reluctant she finally arrived in Carrellshire—her coming signaled only by the fact that it rained more often than it snowed—and the cotters began the work of a new year: mucking out the mill pond, preparing to shear the sheep of their winter cloaks, and sharpening their plowshares to till the clotted soil and make way for crops of oats, barley, vetches, and peas. On one of the first days without a drop of rain, Bess ran up to where Cecily stood examining a broken bit of lattice work. “Cessy! Can ye come to Camberton with me on Stoatsday? Not just the two of us, of course, but Papa’s needed to see a really good blacksmith for some time and I've convinced him to put it off until a market day.”

“Isn’t there a caravan from the Coast that was supposed to arrive this week?”

Medieval Comfits Recipe

Licorice Comfits, a photo by Accidental Hedonist on Flickr. 

In the last segment I posted from the novel's first draft, I mentioned Cecily and Bess mixing up "a batch of mouthwatering aniseed comfits." Comfits are still sold today (they are sometimes called "pastilles"), but were made as far back as Medieval times. Basically, these are candies made by coating a seed (anything from  fennel to caraway to coriander to anise) with melted sugar. Licorice comfits are sold today in all kinds of pretty colors, but these treats were probably quite plain in the Middle Ages.

What follows is a recipe I've edited from one on www.celtnet.org.uk, so you can get a taste of Cecily's world!

Feast of Sages

Days later, on the evening of the Feast, the entire castle staff was treated to Luveday the cook’s estimation of Feasttime: “Methinks this be the most cursed season of the year. All the cookin’, all the visitors, all the hustle and bustle and scourin’ and guttin’ and choppin’ and boilin’ and roastin’ and grindin’ and bakin’ and fryin’ and stewin’—it’s almost more than a body can ‘andle.” The remark, addressed to no one in particular, had been repeated every year for at least two decades, but each time fell on unsympathetic ears.

this is what we eat, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

“You haven’t got a jolly bone in your body, Luveday.” Robbie Brooker tweaked her wimple askew. “This is a time for rejoicing! A chance to celebrate.”

“Not at all, ye young rogue! When ye’re my age and ye have some real responsibilities ye’ll know what “celebratin’” is. If ye had as many meats and treats and whatall as I have to prepare, ye would’na be so merry.” Someone laughed and someone else rolled their eyes, and Cecily collapsed on a low stool in one fragrant corner of the kitchen, out of the way of jostling feet and carving knives. As much as she loved the warmth and plenty of Feasttime, she was forced to admit that the daily workload seemed to double. Every garment had to be fresh and spotless, every floor in the castle must be scrubbed, broken furniture mended, gardens weeded and pruned, and everything generally cleansed for the greatest day of the year, and, as Luveday had duly noted, mountains of food must be prepared. The cooking began a good week before the Feast, with cracking nuts and cleaning game, pounding spices, churning butter, and constantly scrubbing the tools and utensils. Five cattle had been slaughtered for the event (one of which was hissing and dripping over a spit at that moment), the ponds were dragged for all the fish possible, and frigid eels had been speared out of the mud to grace his lordship’s table. Cecily had spent that morning hacking up the entrails of several deer for the venison pie, and assisting young Milo with stirring the innumerable soups that were bubbling in three-legged pots, then helped Bess with a batch of mouthwatering aniseed comfits. Everyone seemed to be in an optimistic mood despite the extra work, and even the faeries were on their best behavior.

Overcoming Pride

If Cecily Lockton has a tragic flaw, it's pride. Throughout the tale of Beast and Beauty I try to show the minor and major influences and events that eventually bring her to the end of her self-sufficiency and to a knowledge of where she really stands in relation to God and man.

To be extremely honest, I deal with my own pride on a daily basis. It's one of my greatest struggles. That's one reason I identify so much with Cecily. She's pretty full of herself sometimes, has a hard time accepting criticism, and tends to blame others rather than herself, just like me. I recently bought a bunch of bookmarks that are printed on both sides with practical examples of pride and humility, and it exactly describes some of Cecily's character traits in Book I (proud people) and in Book II (broken people). Take a look to see what I mean (click to zoom):