how come he’s so familiar with me, and I know so little about him? I brought him up from an orphan, an under-sized urchin living on his wits. I made him who he is, now: confident, respected assistant to the king’s confectioner. (Equal, really: face it. Equal, now, in skill. Rival, if he so chose.) But in so many ways he’s a mystery to me. Sometimes I can barely believe that we’ve spent a decade living alongside each other, working together all day every day and then spending our nights in adjacent lodgings. All these years living like sister and brother. Perhaps that’s why he still captivates me. I find myself watching him when he’s absorbed, when a peculiar clarity comes into those river-green eyes of his and everything that is Richard dissolves away in them, leaving them with a life of their own. For all the contrived appearance to the contrary, he’s deadly serious about his work. That’s something I do know about him. Something I’ve learned. It’s probably the only aspect of life that he’s serious about. I’m probably the only person who ever gets to see beyond his flippancy.
When he arrived, a decade ago, to chance his luck in the royal kitchens, he was just one of so many boys hanging around in hope of paid work. Who could blame them? Doubtless they’d heard how there were wages to be earned as well as two meals a day and, at night, space to curl up near the massive ovens. A job in the royal household is a job for life, and it’s a good life; and when we’re not up to the job—sick, or old—we’re still paid. Less, yes, of course, but enough to keep body and soul. It’s hard work, in the kitchens, but worth it. If the boys couldn’t find paid work, they worked anyway and made it pay: muscling in on household life, and trading in the leftovers which were supposed to go to beggars. They made lives for themselves, even if they were barely clothed. My own little kitchen had a bevy of such boys, always coming and going. I’d inherited a situation which had been gaining ground, unchecked, for years. I didn’t like it; didn’t like the chaos. I only managed any serious work after the boys had gone away to sleep and before they returned in the mornings. And then, inevitably, there was the filching. The sticky fingers. The Chief Clerks hold me personally accountable for the most valuable substance in all the kitchens, but how could I watch every grain? How could I supervise hordes of hungry, destitute children around sugar?
The day I came across Richard, I was doing just as I was doing a moment ago: boiling sugar syrup. One of the boys wanted my attention. Mrs Cornwallis? Mrs Cornwallis? Mrs Cornwallis? I was very busy; surely that was obvious. No? Well, I’d make it obvious, by ignoring him. Not that I had much choice—I couldn’t take my attention from the sugar—but I could have spoken. I could have said, Hang on, please, Joseph, or whoever. Just a moment, John. Missuscornwallismissuscornwallismissuscornwallis—Before I knew it, I’d shot round and was glaring at him, furious with myself for having been distracted. Heat bloomed in the pan behind me, and there was a coppery flash as I whirled back to it. It was gone from the charcoal brazier; it was sinking into a basin of water. I was there, instantly, assessing the damage: none. It was saved, it was saved. I took a moment to appreciate that some kid had done it. Some boy had not only judged the critical point—and from across the room—but had acted without hesitation, snatching a weight of flame-hot and explosive gold from the king’s own confectioner. Then he’d relinquished it, immediately; he was already busy wiping a workbench. He didn’t look at me.
I asked him: ‘Who are you?’
Strange eyes: green, slanted. Elfin. He could have been any age between seven and twelve. ‘Richard.’ He shrugged.
‘Richard,’ I repeated, stupidly, because I didn’t know what else to say; where to start. And, anyway, he was wiping again. His mousy hair was a little matted at the back, I noticed.
Less than a fortnight later, we were visited by a representative of the Cofferer. A not unexpected visit. Word was that Cardinal Wolsey had decreed a great clean-up, a great head-count in the household: enough is enough; time’s up for hangers-on, and hangers-on of hangers-on. When the representative had finished remarking on the fact that I’m the only woman working in the kitchens, which was hardly news to me or to anyone else, he explained his mission: ‘When I’ve finished, there should be around two hundred people working in the kitchens. Not…’ he faltered. ‘Well, not more.’ He said, ‘Basically, anybody who’s not somebody has to go.’ He looked at Kit. ‘Obviously the yeoman here is somebody.’ Kit smiled. Kit, in his yeoman’s green. What Kit is, actually, is a pair of hands, and a very useful, capable one, at that. The man asked me. ‘And you have a groom?’
Someone to wash up and run errands, yes. ‘Geoffrey,’ I said. (These were the days before Stephen; the days before Geoffrey moved on up in the world into the Privy Kitchen and Stephen 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