When the occupants of Avonthyme castle die in mysterious circumstances, three families move in to compete for the castle and its titles. However, their victory may not depend on swords and might, wealth or status, but rather on the people who serve them.
Avonthyme castle sat atop a hill, dandelions drifting like ghosts across the untamed grass, eerily still.
From within the crenellated walls, no sound emerged but the triumphant caw of crows dive-bombing castle gardens unchallenged. No Lords or Ladies called for horses for the hunt, nor kitchen staff sang as they picked vegetables to prepare menus for elegant palates. Everything was silent. As the grave. Which was exactly what it was.
The noble families of the town had attended a banquet for the Lord’s birthday. They dined like Kings, laughed like Jesters, swore like gutter urchins. After drinking a toast for the celebration, every one of them pitched forward into their desserts never to rise again. “Why?” was the question on the frozen, wide mouths of the dead.
The last handful of dirt had barely settled upon their graves before the scavengers began circling.
Three families from neighbouring regions laid claim to the castle and its titles.
There were the Fortescues, who valued strength above all, and spent vast amounts on armaments, knights’ training and defenses, at the expense of servants’ wages. The Beaujolies were a beautiful family, fine featured, well-dressed, fond of exquisite furnishings. But beauty did not come cheaply, so they made economies by cutting staff.
The third family, hoping to become Lord and Lady of Avonthyme, were the Pennyworths. They dressed plainly, their lifestyle was an exercise in frugality – making them a laughing stock on the lord-and-lady circuit.
“I heard they served cheese and bread at their last banquet. Lady Pennyworth made the loaf herself and scared her lady’s maid when she appeared, like a ghost, dusted in flour head to toe!” Lady Beaujolie proclaimed.
“He makes his own wine,” said Lord Fortescue. “Rich as Croesus but expects his guests to drink his vile slush so he can save a few coins on vintners expenses.”
But, for all that they were mocked in high circles, the Pennyworths had wheat and stores set aside for hard times, and their staff’s pockets jingled with coins.
One of them was me. My name is Emily du Pain. I’m a food taster, from a long line of tasters. When I tell people what I do, they grimace or squeal in horror, but it’s not so bad. My family has been tasting for generations and we have managed to build up a tolerance for bad food. And poison. If there is some in a dish, I taste its bitterness, or feel it fizzing on my tongue, with no ill effects. If it’s strong poison, or there’s a lot of it, I may fall ill. But no-one has despatched a du Pain for three generations.
I once worked for the Lord and Lady of Avonthyme but when their budget for jewels expanded, they made cuts elsewhere. They dismissed me and engaged another taster, for half my fee.
The rest, as they say, is history.
#
It looked like war would reign between the three households vying for the castle of ghosts. To save the townsfolk pain and suffering, and boost local receipts, a mediator from the Avonthyme merchants guild was appointed. A pompous man, with a lace handkerchief constantly at his nose, Frederich Fowler persuaded the three families to compete in a series of challenges to claim the castle.
The first challenge was one of strength. Each family brought out their best archers, lancers and swordfighters to compete. Mead flowed freely in the taverns as townsfolk bet on who would win.
I watched the event with my friend, Hugo, a special herbalist who had also worked at Avonthyme. We were allies in the kitchen and our connection endured even after I was forced to leave. Standing together here, eating toffee apples, watching the dangerous events, I grasped his arm as things grew tense.
“Sorry,” I said. Heat, like a blast from cook’s oven, warmed my face.
“It’s okay,” he said, smiling.
Once the battles were done, people gathered in the square to hear Mediator Fowler announce the winner of the first challenge. The Fortescues triumphed, of course.
The family I now served – the Pennyworths – were disappointed, but thanked their knights and gave them extra cakes that night as a bonus.
Meanwhile, brawls broke out in the local taverns. The Fortescues drank too much celebrating, the Beaujolie knights too much commiserating.
Hugo and I sat on the hill, watching smoke billow in the liquorice sky, as rowdy revellers set town buildings alight. He squeezed my hand. “We’ll be all right,” he said, kindling a fire of a different sort within me.
The second challenge was Presentation. Tailors from each house were called upon to create a beautiful outfit for their lord and lady. As they worked in secret, the townsfolk made sport of trying to peek at the seamstresses’ designs. In the taverns, the Beaujolie’s were the favourite bet to win.
At the end of the week, the clothing was displayed in a parade before the town. Hugo and I watched in awe – as ladies and gents moved along a raised walkway, in garbs of such fine cloth – gold, and scarlet and blue – embroidered with flowers, insects, forest animals, so detailed it seemed they might fly off at any moment.
“Such beauty, I never thought I’d see,” I said.
“Me either,” said Hugo, gazing upon my face. “I would want a gown just like that for my bride.”
“Really?” I said. “So nothing too fancy then?” As we laughed, he took my hand and didn’t let go.
“And the winner is…the Beaujolies,” said Mediator Fowler.
A roar from the crowd greeted his words. Fighting broke out right there and then. However, anticipating this, town guards were prepared. They moved in and manhandled the main offenders, leaving resentment to die down to a grumble.
Hugo and I stayed clear of the taverns that night. But flames flickering in the sky, like warring fairies, spoke of trouble. A few innocents, and a couple who were not-so-innocent, floated face down the river the next morning.
The Pennyworths were disappointed at this second loss, but thanked their seamstresses and gave the gowns to families in their charge.
The third challenge, all about castle finances, was carried out behind closed doors – partly because budgets were not a spectacle, but also to discourage more fighting and violence in the town.
Mediator Fowler, flanked by guards, mounted the stage to report that the Pennyworths had won. Booing broke out, guards swept in, clouting anyone who raised their voice.
“Each house has won one challenge.” Mr Fowler shouted above the din. “We will now add up the total points each house has accrued over the three challenges. The winner will be announced tomorrow night, at a banquet at Avonthyme castle, to be attended by the lords and ladies of the three families and all their supporters.”
Hugo and I raced away from town and down to the river, keen to be steer clear of the carnage that would surely follow. He surprised me by bringing out pies and smalls cakes he’d taken from the kitchen, to eat while we watched fish leap in the leaden waters.
“Before the madness begins,” he said, “I must confess my feelings for you and my ardent hope that our futures may lie together.”
“Who knows what the future holds,” I say. “But whatever it is, I hope we can face it side by side.”
After a chaste kiss to seal our bond, we ran back to the castle to prepare the banquet for the next evening.
#
The atmosphere was charged in the castle’s banquet hall. Beneath heads of stags and antelopes killed in hunts and stuffed, the three competing families – the Fortescues, the Beaujolies and the Pennyworths – chewed their food and glowered at their opponents. Their supporters ate at long tables around the room.
Although an impressive meal was served, of many courses, and the Jester and musicians performing were the best for leagues around, few would remember what they’d seen or tasted that night, so tense were they about what was to come. Outside, in the darkness, armies from all three families had assembled, awaiting orders, should anyone take exception to the Mediator’s announcement about who would gain the title and lands of the Lord and Lady of Avonthyme.
I’d barely seen Hugo all day; we’d been busy preparing. There was never a minute to find each other, or a quiet place to escape to. Once, I glimpsed him across the kitchen, working with his herbs, mixing his pastes. I was busy myself, tasting, tasting, tasting. There so many dishes. Not only did cook want me to check for poison, but I had to advise whether the soup needed more salt, the batter more honey.
When it came time to serve, they put me into a maid’s uniform – Hugo, too – and sent me out to serve food and drinks. Normally, I would be unhappy about this, but today there was nowhere I would rather be than nearby as Mediator Fowler took the stage.
Finally, he finished his last fruit course, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and stood to speak.
“Good evening, lords and ladies, Fortescues, Beaujolies and Pennyworths. And loyal supporters. Let me congratulate you all on a competition well-fought…”
His words blurred into a background drone as people listening clutched napkins in tight fists, nibbled the skin around their fingernails, and rubbed their distended, gurgling bellies.
Lord Fortescue grasped his knife as if he was about to stab someone. Lady Beaujolie’s grip on her lace fan looked even more menacing. The Pennyworths, sipped their tea, smiling thanks at the server who brought it to them.
“And the winner is…” Mediator Fowler mopped his brow with his handkerchief, “…the Pennyworths.”
Dead silence followed. Then shouts.
“Rigged!”
“Blackhearts!”
“This is an insult.”
The shouts grew to a deafening level, the words blending into a wall of sound, as two thirds of the guests stood up, shaking fists, spittle flying like tiny canonballs of hate towards their enemies. “Slice them up like a pig’s belly.” “Cut out their pocketbooks and their heart!” “Kill all the Pennyworths and end their line!”
The Mediator waited patiently, as did the winning family – who did not reply to the braying threats.
And then, the volume began to diminish and…thump, thump, crash. Cries changed to squeals, then cracking and choking sounds, as people reached for wine with shaky hands, dropping vessels to the ground, then falling themselves. The Fortescues and their beefed-up supporters growled indelicately, hands on the jewel-hilted swords, the Beaujolies clutched their throats clawing at the white ruffles and gold necklaces. There followed a collective gurgling, then silence.
“Is that it?” the Mediator asked.
An arm shot up, there was a cry and a final thump.
“Right,” said the mediator. “All that remains is for me to welcome the new Lord and Lady of Avonthyme to their home.”
The remaining crowd applauded, and all the staff. We knew who we wanted to win. The Pennyworths, the smartest – and most devious – by far. They alone understood the folly of growing rich at the expense of the very people they depended on to live. The barber with the blade at their throat, the knights guarding them as they slept. The kitchen staff, like me, who tested the food they ate for poison, and Hugo, the chief herbalist, who with a pinch of one herb or another could determine who lived and who did not.
The former Lord and Lady of Avonthyme learnt too late that little people are not powerless; that sending away the best poison taster in the land, while leaving her broken-hearted beau and poison maker in the kitchen might not be the wisest choice.
As the Pennyworths raised their glass to Hugo and I, I was sure the new lord and lady would not make the same mistake.