His expression settled into amused contentment. ‘I cook for myself,’ he said.
‘It was more my own food I was thinking of, sir. And a little money, just a penny or two, you understand, to enable me to buy some necessities. I would do anything you require, should my cleaning not interest you, sir.’
‘Ah,’ he murmured, ‘we are once again back to the bedchamber.’
‘You aren’t taking me seriously,’ Tyballis said with an affronted sniff. ‘So, I apologise for having interrupted you.’ She turned abruptly, tossed her head and marched back towards the stairs.
She was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. He had overtaken her in two steps and now stood, looking down into her eyes. ‘Join me,’ he said. ‘Being a man of few pretentions, as you have seen, I usually eat in the kitchens. There is enough already prepared for a hot supper, and far more than I can use myself.’
‘You want me to share your – meal?’ hiccupped Tyballis.
‘Certainly. And while we eat, we can discuss exactly what you may do for me, Mistress Blessop, to earn the payment you require. It will involve neither cleaning nor the other services we have been carefully not discussing. I could have brought servants in at any time had I cared about the appearance of an ordered household. I do not care and want no woman on her knees scrubbing for me. Nor will I suggest that other common use a man finds for a woman, at which you claim to be – unskilled. There are other possibilities which interest me far more. Now, come and eat.’
She dared not answer. She simply followed him. As they left the hall, the warmth shrank back, but then they turned a narrow corner beyond the stairwell and stood in the polished sparkle of clean tiles and the burnished copper utensils of the kitchens. Another fire roared up the wide chimney, smothering the bubble and crackle of the food cooking there. Leaping reflections lit brighter than candles and the smell of roasting meat burst like gunpowder from a cannon. Tyballis sank down on the bench beside the kitchen table and gazed in awe at the chicken carcass on the spit, dripping its juices into the flames below.
‘Hungry, little one?’
‘Oh, very much,’ breathed Tyballis.
Andrew Cobham took up a long carving knife and began to sharpen it, flicking water from the bowl to dampen the whetting stone by the grate. He indicated the long shelves and the crockery piled there. ‘Then, help me plate what is needed for us both,’ he said. ‘First we eat. And then we talk.’
Chapter Nine
Gliding high over the rooftops, the kestrel caught the first soft warmth of the sun on her primary feathers. She peered down over the meandering fields towards the riverbanks and back again to the hedges and lanes. Hunger did not spoil her patience. She was searching for rats, mice or voles, and looked for any sudden movement amongst the damp grasses.
In a small chamber within the house standing directly below, Tyballis struggled into her new clothes. She had never worn so much or anything so grand, and the fastenings puzzled her. He had said he would help her dress if she needed it, and when, embarrassed, she had refused, he had offered to send Elizabeth or Felicia. But a woman, she thought, must surely be able to put her gown over her own head, however unaccustomed. Now she was finding it far more difficult than she had supposed. Eventually, wrapping the great fur lined cloak around her ineptitude, Tyballis went back down into the hall.
He was standing in front of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back, staring down into the flames as he so often did. He turned as she approached and regarded her. ‘Let me see,’ he said. She presented herself, feeling foolish.
He had been her landlord for a little more than a week, though had seen little of him. That first evening in his company she had eaten well, she had warmed herself within and without, she had drunk good Burgundy wine for the first time in her life and she had listened at length. Finally, understanding some and agreeing to all, she had climbed back upstairs to her cold and solitary chamber, had gone to bed and had slept deeply.
The next days had passed, sweet and fast. Andrew Cobham did not contact her directly, but he sent food to the Spiers and asked that they include Tyballis in their rations. Although their youngest child was no longer ill, the family had eaten little for some time. Now each day there came fresh bread from the Portsoken bakers, once a full leg of salted bacon and then two fine pullets for broiling. Tyballis collected herbs from the garden to add to the pot, and firewood stacked to dry in the grate. She and her new friends ate well. Felicia quickly discovered that Tyballis was useful to have around, after all.
Felicia watched with interest as Tyballis washed Ellen’s tangled curls in a bowl of warmed lavender water, then with Ellen at her feet, cleaned the child’s hair of lice, combing out the eggs onto a kerchief spread on her lap. At the same time, she told the children stories – four bright little faces raised to hers, mouths open and eyes wide at the tales of the magical King Arthur, the amazing travels of Marco Polo, and Mister Chaucer’s House of Fame. During the long evenings Jon Spiers’ gentle snores echoed from the other chamber, but he always woke in time for meals. The perfumes of cooking preceded his hurried arrival.
Tyballis was in her own chamber when Ralph Tame delivered four shiny silver pennies. An advance payment, he said, by order of their landlord, for the business to come. Ralph looked with curiosity and a little suspicion, but Tyballis simply thanked him and walked down to the riverside and the wharves. The lighters were gathering for business at the base of the old steps. Tyballis found one carrying eels from Marlowe’s quay just the other side of The Tower. She bought enough for the entire household and spent the next day cooking alone in the huge hot kitchens. She made a pottage with onions, barley and herbs. As it bubbled, she made a custard flavoured with syrup from Andrew Cobham’s pantry. She stewed eels, made a broth from the juices, a tart from a little of the residue, and finished with a galantine of eels to bake in pastry.
Already she had begun to receive visitors. Felicia Spiers and her children visited often. Davey Lyttle came to offer unnamed and unspecified services, and to offer them again each time she refused. Both Ralph and Nat Tame brought dry kindling and warm hens’ eggs collected from the garden. Now Tyballis invited the household to a great dinner of her own making. Acting the hostess, and making her own choices, had rarely been possible before. She sent a message by Ellen, asking if Mister Cobham would care to eat with them all, and if she might use the great table in the hall. She received no reply for Andrew Cobham was not at home, and Luke the runaway monk had not answered the knock on his door. But few ever turned down an opportunity to eat for free, so it was a little squashed, but no one complained. The dinner was a success. Davey made up rhymes rich in double meanings, the elderly Mister Switt said little but smiled incessantly, Ralph and Nat sat together and sang out of tune, Felicia Spiers helped serve, and her husband Jon managed to stay awake while the children rolled and played beneath the little overcrowded table. They called it a feast and Tyballis felt fully accepted amongst them.
On her eighth evening in the house, her landlord came. He explained briefly what he wanted, offered her the choice to comply or refuse, and then handed her a great armful of clothes. Tyballis nodded in amazement. At dawn the next morning, she rose and began to dress.
Now she stood very straight for her landlord’s inspection and waited. After a moment Andrew lifted her face to his, one finger beneath her chin. ‘The marks are fading,’ he said.
She had forgotten the marks, since she had no mirror in which to look. She had almost forgotten Margery Blessop’s attack, and she had barely spared Borin a thought this past glorious week. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Was it so bad?’