She outlined her plan of campaign and had them fully in four sentences.
“Cook needs to know who she’s feeding. My notion is that anyone below the rank of earl takes a house in the town.” She looked at them.
Toby shook his head. “Close, but won’t work. I’ll write a list.” He took her tablet and wrote-starting with Ser Ranald. “He’s got to be here. My master-Robin’s-the Prior. All the messengers-they can go to the barracks, but then there’s…” He scribbled furiously.
Blanche turned to Robin. “My best guess is that the whole garrison is out in the field. Please go count the beds in the barracks, and find out how many can be fed?”
Robin-Lord Robin-was putty in her hands, like an apprentice boy in Harndon. She looked past him. “Nell? Get me two more pages.”
Nell might have put her foot down, but she was a careful young woman and she knew when good work was being done.
“We got two hundred wet an’ hungry horses, Blanche,” she said. “You can ha’ me for an hour.”
Trailed by two very young maids, Blanche and Nell proceeded to pass through the rooms of the upper citadel like an avenging army. Blanche simply reeled off the rooms to the men on Toby’s list. She did them in the order he’d written them.
Then she paused and, propped on a doorframe, wrote all the Queen’s ladies and servants, as best she knew them.
“Nell, get me Becca Almspend,” she said.
Nell ran.
There were voices-laughter. The beautiful young man-perhaps the handsomest she’d ever seen-was Galahad D’Acon. She knew him from the old court, one of the Queen’s squires. The heartthrob of every laundry maid.
“North tower, blue room, first floor,” she said. “You share with Diccon Twig and any other messengers. Tell the maids what to fetch-they’re overwhelmed. Be nice, Messer D’Acon.”
She realized in the middle of speaking that he could treat her as a laundress and it would all unravel. But he grinned.
“Yes, Lady Blanche,” he said. He bowed. “Diccon!” he roared down the stairs. “We have a room!”
As the rest of the nobles came down, she took them aside and gave them room assignments-explaining to each the difficulties.
By the time she reached Prior Wishart, Cook had numbers for dinner, Lord Gregario Wayland had volunteered a town house that would sleep a dozen other gentlemen in comfort, and had even offered to send linens and feather beds to the citadel. Blanche accepted them all. The Grand Squire-Shawn LeFleur, a man of impeccable courtesy-was instantly understanding when she tried him in private and discreet as a mouse when the Queen asked him what the trouble was. The pages had already found him an empty house and had his own retinue scrubbing and stripping it. People were backing her. It felt heavenly.
The Grand Squire began to be flirtatious. Blanche smiled and moved firmly on to her next task.
“Blanche,” Lady Almspend said. “You called?”
Blanche was aware that she’d just summoned the Queen’s best friend but, on the other hand, Lady Almspend was the very perfection of practicality in all things.
“My lady,” she began.
“Becca,” the lady in question insisted. “We may all be eaten by boglins. We can use each other’s first names.”
“Becca, I’m sorting rooms and I don’t know the new ladies.” Blanche pointed at her list.
Becca put a hand to her mouth. A spurt of laughter escaped.
“Which I had to call them something,” Blanche said weakly.
Becca took the list and gravely pressed the wax flat. “Lady Fashion is Natalia de Wayland-Lord Gregario’s wife. She can sew, Blanche-she’s not a useless pretty face. The ‘talkative’ one is Lady Emma. The ‘Bean Pole’ is Lady Briar, and she would not thank you for that description. ‘White Wimple’ must be her daughter-pretty?”
“Yes,” said Blanche.
“Ella or Hella. One of those. They can all go in one room. Well, Natalia will no doubt go with Lord Gregario. And I expect we’ll put Rowan the wet nurse with the Queen.”
“And you, my lady?” Blanche asked with a straight face. On the road, Lady Becca had been with her Ranald every night, but the road had different rules.
Becca smiled. “Give me a very small closet and I’ll pretend to stay in it,” she said pleasantly. “Where are you staying?” she asked.
Blanche paused. She had entirely forgotten herself.
“Good, we’ll share,” Becca said. “North Tower, highest floor. There’s only Ser Gabriel and the Queen, which is perfect for both of us.”
Blanche searched her tone for a hint of innuendo and found none.
“It will only get worse, Blanche. The Count of the Borders is a three-day march away and with him will be the Jarsay nobles-who were in revolt before and are now loyal-and Gabriel’s brother Gavin, who is, I gather, the new Earl of Westwall.” She pulled her spectacles off her nose. “I’ll help tomorrow. Sufficient unto the day are the evils thereto-and I smell dinner. You have been magnificent.”
Blanche sagged.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Becca said. “Dinner-with the lords and ladies, or the servants will be on you like leeches. Come!” She dragged Blanche down a flight of stairs.
Blanche had expected pot house stew for a hundred. Instead, she found that the soup course was a fine egg yolk soup with rosewater and candied orange peel-fit for her mistress, delicious and beautifully served by twenty squires under Lord Robin.
“Where’s Toby?” she whispered.
“Making sure the pages are fed.” Robin smiled. “Go and eat.”
Pork pies rolled out next, and Blanche recognized that Cook must be serving prepared food-emptying the larder. She ate with gusto.
The turkey with raspberries was superb, and the Queen glowed and toasted her knights. The court ate voraciously, as men and women who have been in the saddle days on end will do, and drank to match.
“Cook wishes a word,” whispered a voice in her ear and was gone, and she smiled at her neighbour-the Grand Squire, now so polite as to be near to flirtatious-rose and slipped away along the table, pausing to offer a good curtsey to the Queen.
The Queen had her hand on the Red Knight’s hand.
A sliver of ice went down her back, and she cursed.
The Red Knight turned and met Blanche’s eye across the table. He had candles behind him, which gave him an incongruous halo. He smiled-and went back to talking to the Queen.
Damn him.
Nicomedes intercepted her at the head of the stairs.
“We’ll go together,” he said.
She smiled, and they walked down the broad serving stairs-so like the stairs at the palace in Harndon, she thought. They went down one flight and turned into the kitchen, which was more than half the size of the great hall, with two great fires roaring. The heat was enormous, but not unwelcome in late spring.
Cook came up, wiping her hands.
“That’s all my food, served,” she said. “Now what do we do?”
“Buy more?” Master Nicomedes said patiently.
Cook eyed him suspiciously. “Who are you, any road?”
Blanche nodded. “He is the Queen’s master of household. And the captain’s.”
“What captain?”
“The Duke of Thrake,” said Master Nicomedes.
“Oh!” said Cook.
“Give me or any of my people a list by first light and we’ll have it on your work tables by matins,” Nicomedes said. “I have household stores of my own.”
“Saffron? Sugar?” Cook asked. “I’m out.”
Blanche decided to stay to her role and pushed away the image of the Queen’s hand on the Red Knight’s. “As you seem settled, I’ll return to my dinner,” she said.
Nicomedes, a gallant man, bowed. “My lady,” he said.
But escape was not so easy, and Goodwife Elizabeth was waiting for her at the stairs.
“I’m out of linens and straw pallets and bed cases and towels-and everything else.” She looked defiant, as if being out of things justified defiance.
It was professional anger that made Blanche bridle, not false gentility. The laundry in the palace of Harndon had never, ever run out of anything. “Get more,” she snapped.