stepped into his shoes.) ‘He’s at the scullery.’
‘And…these.’ It might have been intended as a question but it fell flat, leaving us facing them. The boys. Seven or so of them; or ten, perhaps. They looked back, as nonchalant and calculating as cats.
I sighed. Their days were numbered, here, and they knew it. Turning so that they couldn’t see me, I said so that they couldn’t hear me, ‘Richard has to stay.’
‘Richard?’ The man frowned; he wanted no difficulties.
I lied, ‘He’s my assistant.’
The man consulted his notes.
I came clean. ‘He’ll be my assistant,’ I said, and folded my arms, which was, and still is, the only way I know to stand my ground. ‘Confectionery is skilled work,’ I proclaimed; I was trying hard, now.
He sighed. ‘Richard who?’
I had to turn around and face them all; to brazen it out. I half-turned, and quietly asked Richard: ‘Richard who?’
He shrugged.
I looked back at the man, and shrugged in turn.
The man sighed, frowned, and opened his mouth to say something.
‘Cornwallis,’ I said.
It’s the nice-looking boy, again; the black-haired one who came here the other day. Luminous complexion.
‘He’s not here.’ I roll my eyes; more biddable, today.
‘Richard?’
‘Yes. Richard. Not here.’ Seeds scuttle beneath my fingertips—fennel, aniseed, caraway, coriander—as syrup dries around them, making sugar hailstones. ‘Any message?’
‘For Richard?’
‘Yes.’ What is this? ‘For Richard.’ I spoon more syrup into the pan, and the stranger raises his eyes back to mine. Presumably he hasn’t ever seen this before: a pan swinging on cords above a brazier. His eyes aren’t dark, I see now; they’re shadowed by dark eyelashes, lots of them. The eyes are blue. I nod at the pan. ‘There’s a good reason for it. Maintains an even heat.’
He nods, still wide-eyed.
This is no kitchen-lad: no yeoman’s uniform, and his clothes are much better than a groom’s. Much better than any household employee’s, it occurs to me. But nor is he a courtier. He doesn’t have the pristine, polished appearance. Doesn’t have the strut; there’s no trace of it in his stance. He’s wearing battered clogs. What’s his link with Richard? What on earth does Richard—fastidious Richard—make of him?
He says, ‘I don’t know…Richard.’ It’s a gentle voice.
‘Well, he’ll be back later, if you want to try again then.’
‘No—’ the eyes dip away into a smile, ‘I mean, I’m not here to see Richard.’
‘Oh. Oh. Sorry. It’s just that…well, everyone always is.’ We exchange smiles, now. ‘Can I help?’
This is somehow unhelpful in itself, because he freezes, lips parted. Mute. I can wait; I’ve plenty to occupy me. Comfits take hours; hours and hours of this, to get them perfectly round.
‘This is stupid, probably, but it’s you I’ve come to see. I’ve been at the king’s banquets and feasts, and I’ve seen…’ He stops, shuts his eyes briefly but emphatically; a lavish blink. ‘You remember the Saint Anne you made?’
Well, of course I do; it took me long enough. This man, this boy, has been at the king’s banquets and feasts? He’s a server, that’s what he is. Must be. A privileged young man putting in his time at the tables before moving on to better things. But presumably not in those clogs.
‘And that leopard? It’s just that they’re so…’ He looks upwards, skyward.
So…?
‘Lovely.’ His gaze back to mine. ‘Detailed. Perfect. And I wanted to meet the person who made them. Everyone talks about you. The king—’ He leaves it there: enough said.
‘The king’s very kind.’ And it’s true.
‘I just wanted to meet you, and to see how you do it.’
What a strange request: everyone’s very interested in the finished articles, but I’ve never come across anyone who cares how they’re made. ‘Well, I’m afraid, as you can see, it’s not really happening today. Today is comfits.’
A wince of a smile from him, as if it’s his fault. He glances appreciatively around the room, making the best of it now that he’s here.
‘If you come back on Friday, I’ll be sculpting.’
‘Right.’ He snaps to attention. ‘See you on Friday.’
I’m saying, ‘Well, only if you want to,’ but he’s already gone.
This next time, funnily enough, they pass each other in the doorway. When he’s shut the door, Richard asks me, ‘What was Smeaton doing here?’
‘Smeaton?’
He comes over to look at what I’ve been doing.
‘His name’s Mark.’
‘Yep. Mark Smeaton.’
‘How do you know who he is?’
He saunters away with a smirk. ‘I know anyone who’s anyone, Lulabel.’
‘But he’s a musician.’ That’s what he’s just told me.
He stops, turns back to me. ‘A musician?’ He looks amused. ‘Is that what he told you?’
My heart flounders: what does he mean? what’s going on?
‘He’s the musician, more like. The up-and-coming musician. In the king’s opinion.’ He ties his apron around his waist.
‘Mark?’ The Mark who was in here, just now?
‘Smeaton. Otherwise known as Angel-voice.’
Angel-voice? ‘Is he?’
‘Well, no, but he could be.’ He’s washing his hands. ‘His voice is what he’s famous for.’
‘Famous?’
‘Well, kind of. Known for.’ Slant-eyes sideways. ‘Let’s face it, it isn’t for his dress sense, is it.’
Sometimes Richard is so shallow. He has a lot to learn about what matters in life.
‘Anyway,’ he dries his hands on his apron, ‘what was he doing in here? Ol’ Angel-face.’
Angel-face.
