Читать книгу Medieval Brides - Anne Herries - Страница 17

Fearful that Adam might confront her directly over her visit to Leofwine’s house, Cecily spent the next few hours avoiding him. Initially that was not hard: there were old friendships to rekindle; there were rushes in need of replacing; there was Cloud and her father’s wolfhounds to look to…

When she entered the cookhouse to take stock, the importance of keeping Adam and his troop well fed was large in her mind. Her contact with men might been scant of late, but she would never forget how ill-tempered her father had become if he’d missed a meal. It followed that Adam and his men were more likely to deal even-handedly with the villagers if they had full stomachs. Enemies of the Saxon people though they might be, it was in everyone’s interests that she gave them good meals.

As Gudrun had warned her, there was no sign of Lufu, and the cookhouse was deserted. Golden strings of onions dangled from nails in the roof-plate. Good—plenty of those. Next to the onions hung bundles of herbs—parsley and sage and bay. Bunches of chives. The way the herbs were knotted told Cecily they had been dried by her mother in the summer just past. Damping down a rush of emotion, Cecily forced herself to continue with her review. Adam and his men must be fed…

Above the main cooking fire and slightly to one side of it the hook on which a smoked ham usually dangled was empty. She sighed. A cooking vessel sat empty on the coals, the water having boiled away hours ago. Reaching for a cloth, Cecily took the pot from the fire and set it on a flat stone to cool. Filthy, unwashed pots lay everywhere. Dirty serving dishes were piled high on the table. Used knives and spoons had been thrown down beside them. The sour stench of unwashed pot-cloths filled the air.

It got worse. The bread oven was so cold it could not have been fired in days. The fire under the washtub was also out. If her father had been alive he would have had Lufu in the stocks for such slovenliness…

Afraid that the state of the cookhouse was the least of Lufu’s negligence, Cecily picked up her skirts and climbed the short flight of stairs which led to the storeroom. The door swung open at a touch when it should have been locked.

Gripped by a growing sense of urgency, she tapped one of the barrels where the salt meat should be stored. It rang hollow. She tapped another—that too was empty. And another. Again, empty. The costly sacks of salt were there, ready for use, but as she had feared the killing and salting had yet to be done. If it wasn’t done soon the salt would grow damp and spoil. Adam would have to be told of the state of the storeroom, and the thought filled her with dread. In like circumstances, her father would have gone beserk.

Someone had made a start with the apples, though. Neat rows of green cookers and lines of rosy russets filled two of the shelves, but the apples should be up in the apple loft by this time, packed away in straw. There were three casks of ale and a couple of wine. Several sacks of grain. A heap of turnips. Half a dozen rounds of cheese, wrapped in sacking. Preparations for winter had begun, but not enough had been done—not nearly enough. The meat was the worst of it, for without it everyone would be tightening their belts in weeks, if not days. Tempers would start to get frayed, as if there wasn’t enough to worry about…

Cecily needed no seer to tell her that her mother, great with the child that she had been too old to be bearing, and weighed down with grief on learning of the deaths of her husband and her son at Hastings, must have lost heart.

Where was Lufu? The girl’s short-sighted laziness would see everyone suffering this winter. And Godwin? In her mother’s absence, the reeve too must share the responsibility for what had not been done here. Sins of omission, as Mother Aethelflaeda would say.

A movement in the cookhouse had her whirling around as a tall streak of a boy shuffled into the storeroom. He stooped his head as he passed under the doorframe. Cecily half recognised him. Of about her own age, he wore a coarse brown peasant’s tunic that was torn at the shoulder and in dire need of a wash. The bindings of his chausses were unravelling. He looked a shambles, but his face was alight with honest pleasure. ‘C…C…Cec?’ he said. ‘Yes! Cec!’

‘Wat? Oh, Wat, I am glad to see you well.’ It was Alfred’s motherless son. He was in need of a scrubbing, but hale, thank the Lord. Apparently, he was just about coping without his father.

Wat grinned and nodded. ‘Cec, Cec.’ He had always liked Cecily, though he had never managed her full name. He reached for her hand. ‘Cec!’ he repeated, and, still grinning, clumsily raised her fingers to his lips. ‘Cec come home!’

‘Yes, Wat. I’m home. Wat, do you know where Lufu is?’

‘Lufu?’ His brow wrinkled.

‘Yes, I’m looking for Lufu.’ Still holding his hand, she led him, docile as a lamb, back into the deserted cookhouse. ‘We need help if anyone is to eat tonight. Where’s Lufu?’

Wat shook his head. ‘Gone up?’

‘Up?’

Wat looked blankly at her, and Cecily sighed. ‘Oh, dear—never mind.’ She rolled up her sleeves. ‘We had best make a start on it ourselves. Wat, please fetch some water—the pail’s in that corner.’

Wat pursed his lips.

‘Won’t you help me, Wat?’

Eagerly, he nodded.

‘Then take the bucket—that one, over there.’

Still clinging to her hand, not moving, Wat swung it from side to side. Smiling he repeated, ‘Cec home.’

‘Yes, Wat, I’m home.’

And then, to her mingled astonishment and horror, Wat fell to his knees, pressed his face into her belly, and burst into tears. He clung like a baby, shaking and sobbing. A pain in her chest, Cecily put her arms around him.

And naturally Adam Wymark chose that moment to walk into the cookhouse.

Adam stood just inside the cookhouse door, blinking at the sight of the beggarly lad in filthy homespun who was sobbing into Cecily’s skirts. The lad reeked—Adam could smell him from the doorway—but Cecily was embracing him with no sign of revulsion. Far from it—she was stroking his lank hair back from his brow, hugging his unwashed person to her, and murmuring soft words that he could not understand into the boy’s ear. Saxon words. Words that could speak treason and he would never know it until it was too late. But somehow he did not think treason was being spoken here. Fool that he was, he did not want it to be treason that was being spoken here…

‘Clearly one has to be Saxon to win your favour,’ Adam said, forcing a smile.

They sprang apart. The boy edged sideways, sleeving his tears. Cecily’s chin came up. ‘This is Wat,’ she said. ‘An old friend.’

Adam leaned against a littered table and folded his arms. His stomach was churning with doubts concerning her loyalties, but he’d be damned before he’d let her see it. But, hell, both Cecily and the boy looked the picture of guilt. He adopted a dry, teasing tone. ‘First Edmund—you kiss him. And now Wat. He is embraced. How many other admirers are hiding in the woodwork? Will I have to fight for your hand?’

‘No, S…Adam. It’s not like that,’ she said, biting her lip and flushing.

‘No?’ Adam tipped his head to one side. The boy Wat was watching them open-mouthed; the tear-tracks had left clean streaks on his face. ‘Cecily, come here.’ Adam wanted to have it out with her about her little visit to Golde Street, but he could not—must not. The waiting game, he reminded himself. You are playing the waiting game.

Hesitantly, still biting that lip, she took a step towards him. Something was worrying her. She was holding herself in a way that told him she half expected him to hit her. Guilt? Or something else?

‘Closer. I have something to tell you.’

She took another step towards him as, behind her, Wat edged past and made a dash for the door. ‘What is it?’

‘Closer.’ Their feet almost touched. Her blue eyes were wide. Innocent. Guileless. Charmingly hesitant, if he could but believe what he was seeing. If only he had never heard her in the goldsmith’s house…if only she did not look so afraid…

‘Adam, is something amiss?’

Leaning forwards, he took her hands and stared into her eyes. Her pupils were dark, her lashes long. He could see the light from the doorway reflected in them, the shadow of his own self. ‘Cecily,’ he muttered, and shook his head. Hell, why was it so important that she did not hate him?

‘Adam?’

‘I’ve spoken to Father Aelfric. He speaks a little French, and I speak a little Latin, and between us I think we managed to understand each other. He has agreed to marry us on the morrow. I gather that if we don’t wed then we’ll have to wait till after Christmas—because it will be Advent, and it is bad luck to marry in Advent.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So.’ He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Reasoning that we need all the luck we can get, tomorrow’s our wedding day—if you are still in agreement?’ Jesu, why had he done that? Offered her an escape route again? He might not trust her, but he damn well wanted her—he should take her and have done. It wasn’t as if he was in love with the girl that he should be so concerned for her feelings.

Those beautiful blue eyes didn’t so much as flicker. ‘I have agreed,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow will be fine. There is no need to wait till after Christmas.’

Adam gave what he hoped was an unconcerned nod as a new, urgent thought relegated Golde Street to the back of his mind. He wanted—no, he ached for her to give him some physical sign of her acceptance. A squeeze of her fingers, perhaps. A smile, even. For a moment she did not move, and then it was as though she had read his mind. She smiled and reached up to draw his head down to hers.

Her kiss was as light as thistledown and she drew back at once, crimson.

It was enough. With a murmur, Adam tugged her towards him. Wrapping his arms about her waist, he buried his face in her neck and felt the first peace he had known all day.

‘Damn this wimple,’ he said, drawing back to push it aside. He kissed her neck, nipping gently at the skin. Fingers on her chin, he turned her lips to his.

The kiss went on a long time—long enough for his tongue to trace her lips, for hers to trace his, long enough for his loins to tighten and for him to want to press himself against her and wish that tomorrow was already here. Long enough for him to forget utterly that he had heard her in Golde Street only that morning…

Giving a shaky laugh, he raised his head. ‘We’ll have to do something about your clothing. I cannot wed you garbed as a novice.’

Nodding, she eased away. Because he wanted to snatch her back, Adam stuck his thumbs into his belt.

‘I saw my sister Emma’s clothes chest in the Hall. She won’t mind if I borrow her gowns.’ She tipped her head back to look up at him, and her mouth was sad. ‘My mother had some stuff stored away too…’

‘All yours now, to dispose of as you will,’ Adam said carefully, conscious that she must resent the circumstances in which she had come to inherit her mother’s belongings.

‘Yes. My thanks.’

He glanced about, seeing the cookhouse for the first time. ‘This place is a midden. And it will be dark soon.’ Turning from the filthy workbench, he nudged the dead ashes in the hearth with the toe of his boot. ‘Shouldn’t this be fired?’

‘Yes.’

That wary, haunted expression was back in her eyes. Was she afraid of him? A moment ago that had not seemed possible, but…‘Where’s the cook?’

‘Lord knows—run off and hidden somewhere. I was trying to hunt something out for supper.’

‘It’s a good thought—the men are starving. But I don’t expect you to cook for us.’

‘Someone has to…’ She was the picture of anxiety. ‘I have to tell you that the stocks are shamefully low…’

He smiled. ‘We’ve not eaten a decent meal in weeks. Another day more or less wouldn’t kill us. But you should not be cooking.’

‘I don’t mind. Just till I find Lufu.’

‘No, it’s not your place—but you will need to order the help. I saw a couple of lads lurking in the stables…’

‘That would be Harold and Carl, the miller’s boys.’

He was pleased to see the worry leaving her eyes. It was replaced with a look of puzzlement, as though she wanted to fathom him but could not. Well, that was hardly surprising. She was a mystery to him too.

‘I’ll get young Herfu to haul them over. They can earn their keep,’ he said. ‘Herfu can help too.’

‘Brian?’

‘Aye—he cooked for the troop before, and no one died.’

She smiled. ‘That’s a mercy. I can’t promise much tonight—unless we can lay our hands on some meat. There is no time to slaughter a pig or a lamb, and in any case their meat is best hung before eating—there are chickens, though, will they do?’

‘A feast. I’ve been longing for chicken ever since Mother Aethelflaeda tantalised us at the convent.’ Adam leaned forwards as a force that was beyond his strength to resist had him dropping a kiss on her nose. Fool, fool, wait until you know where her loyalties lie. ‘I’ll send Herfu over immediately. Once you’ve instructed him and the miller’s boys, come back to the Hall, would you?’

‘As you wish. Why?’

‘Because we’re going to search out the reeve—what was his name?’

‘Godwin.’

‘Godwin—aye. Maybe Godwin will know where the cook has gone, and I want you with me. It was heavy going, getting the message across to Father Aelfric.’

‘Of course. I understand.’

Dusk was falling by the time Cecily walked back into to the Hall.

Sir Richard was ensconced on a bench by the trestle, a cup of wine at his elbow, a lute in his hand. She broke her stride. A lute? Of course there was no reason why a Norman should not play the lute. But it gave her pause to see one of Duke William’s knights with a delicate musical instrument. His squire, Geoffrey, and a couple of the troopers sat with him, deep in murmured conversation. Adam was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Gudrun. But Adam’s squire, Maurice, was dandling a cooing Agatha on his knee, and Philip…

Her brother’s basket lay in the sleeping area, but from her standpoint it wasn’t possible to see inside. Was Philip with Gudrun or was he asleep? She didn’t care to think that he might have been left alone in the Hall with not a Saxon in sight. True, with Agatha crowing and waving her chubby fists at him so gleefully, Maurice did not look capable of harming a baby, but if Adam and his men discovered that Philip was the rightful heir to Fulford how would they react? Would they kill him? No, surely a man like Adam Wymark—apparently a considerate man—would not countenance infanticide?

Masking her concern, and mindful of Adam’s comments about not wishing to marry her in her habit, she stole a glance across the rushes to where Emma kept her clothes chest. It wasn’t there.

Nevertheless, Philip’s basket was. Casually, she wandered across. Her brother was asleep on his side, with only his face and one tiny fist visible above the coverlet. So sweet. So small. Her throat ached.

Adjusting his covers, she straightened. ‘Sir Richard?’

‘My lady?’

‘There was a small chest here earlier, under the window. Did anyone move it?’

‘Was it painted red?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Adam had it hauled up to the loft chamber.’

The loft room to one side of her father’s mead hall had been built at about the time of Thane Edgar’s marriage to her mother. Being Norman, Thane Edgar’s bride had not liked to sleep with the rest of the household. She had expected the Thane of Fulford and his lady to have some private space. The loft room had served Cecily’s parents as bedchamber, and also as meeting room for the immediate family.

Murmuring her thanks, Cecily hooked up her skirts and started up the ladder.

At the top, the landing was large enough for two people and the linen press, no more. She paused by the press, steeling herself—she had not entered this room since she had been forced into her novice’s habit.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch. Facing her, at the gable end, was her parents’ bed—now Adam’s. Light slanted down from a wind-eye above it, lighting up a tumble of untidy bedding, a man’s green tunic, a crumpled white linen chainse or shirt. A brazier, unlit, stood at her right hand, another on her left…

A movement on the left caught her attention.

Adam! Stripped to the waist, standing before a ewer of water on a stand, washcloth in hand.

He turned.

‘Oh!’ In the moment before she lowered her eyes Cecily glimpsed a broad, well-muscled chest with dark hair arrowing down towards the tie of his hose. He seemed larger half naked, and most disconcerting. The effect of her years in the convent, she supposed. Curiosity warred with shyness. Shamefully, she wanted to continue looking at him. But shyness won, and she stared fixedly at a bedpost, hoping he could not see her blushes. ‘I…I’m sorry. Sir Richard said you’d had Emma’s belongings sent up here. I didn’t think you…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘I’ll be gone in a moment,’ Adam said, his voice amused. ‘If you’d pass me that towel?’

A square of white linen was lying in the rumpled mess on the bed. She thrust it in his general direction.

Swiftly drying himself, Adam dragged a clean linen shirt from a travelling chest that sat against the wall between Emma’s red one and her father’s strongbox. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that he had to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the low angled roof.

Only when he was safely inside his tunic did she risk meeting his gaze. ‘This was my parents’ room,’ she said softly, unable to analyse her feelings on seeing Adam Wymark standing in the same space where so often she had seen her father.

Should she hate this stranger from Brittany? She did not hate him—she did not think she could, for so far he had not shown himself to be a cruel man—yet to see him here, sword propped against the side of the bed in exactly the same way that her father had propped his sword…

Adam buckled his belt, his face unreadable. ‘I know, and I’m sorry if it offends you, but I used this room before chasing to the convent after your sister.’ He shrugged. ‘Tonight it’s yours. But tomorrow…’He came to stand close, so close she could smell the soapwort he had been using. ‘Tomorrow it will be our room.’

Her pulse quickened, her mouth opened, but no words emerged. He stood looking down at her: tall, slender, dark. A Breton knight. Her knight. Her mouth felt dry. Would he bring kindness to their marriage? Part of her was beginning to think it possible. But, no, how could that be when he was Duke William’s man, and she was marrying him for convenience? She was marrying him for Philip; for the villagers; for the sake of peace…

And for you? Does not a small part of you marry him for yourself? asked an insidious voice. No! Never! I marry him to…As Cecily looked up at Adam, her mouth went dry and she lost track of her thoughts. It was extraordinary how compelling she found the shape of his lips…

‘Beautiful…’ she murmured.

‘Hmm?’

‘Oh! N-nothing. I…I…nothing!’ she stuttered, her thoughts utterly scrambled.

Theoretically, Cecily knew what happened in the marriage bed—how had Emma phrased it? ‘You’ve seen the stallion put to our mares’—but how did that translate into human terms? She was largely ignorant of what actually went on between a man and a woman. Some men forced women, this she knew. One of the novices at the convent had been raped and sent there in shame when she had become pregnant, even though it had not been her fault. Cecily could still hear the poor girl’s cries echo round the chapel when she realised she would never return to her village. Would Adam force her? Once they were married he would have the right…tomorrow he would have the right…and no one called it rape when a man forced his wife.

Mother Aethelflaeda had told the nuns that carnal love, as she called it, was only acceptable if the couple were married and were intent on begetting children. They were to take no pleasure in their union, for then it became sinful. ‘Carnal love distracts one from the love of God,’ Mother Aethelflaeda had stressed, many times. ‘It is a woman’s duty to give her husband children, yet it is a sin when she takes pleasure in it.’

Confused, Cecily gazed at the man she would marry on the morrow, the man who pleased her eyes, and butterflies fluttered in her belly. If only it were darker in here. He must know he has this strange effect on me. He is laughing at me. He is…

Would he please her body too? Kissing Adam was already a pleasure, which must mean she was a sinner. And as for the rest…Well, tomorrow would tell whether she would find doing her duty a pleasure or no. Her legs felt weak. She did not think he would have to force her…

Adam’s gaze had lightened. ‘You’ve come to change your gown?’

‘Aye—it will feel strange to wear colours after so long.’

He smiled and gently stroked her cheek, warm fingers sliding underneath her wimple. She wanted to lean into the caress like a cat, and rub her cheek against his fingertips. Sensual longings took shape in her mind—forbidden, sinful longings.

‘I won’t be sorry to see the back of this,’ he said, and with his other hand he twitched at her skirts. ‘Not to mention this grey apology for a habit that the convent saw fit to clothe you in.’ Taking up his sword, he turned to the door. ‘I’ll send Gudrun up with more hot water.’

The latch clicked quietly behind him.

Alone in her parents’ room, Cecily sank onto the rumpled bed and put her head in her hands. What was the matter with her? If Mother Aethelflaeda had but a glimpse at the turmoil in her mind she would have her doing penance till her life’s end.

Downstairs in his basket lay her baby brother, an orphan, an innocent. It was up to her to protect him, and to do that she must marry Adam. Honesty compelled her to admit that she had found his dark looks achingly attractive from the first, and against all odds she was learning to like him personally as well. In other circumstances she might have been happy to wed him, might have been able to make a good marriage with him. But—reaching up, she snatched off her veil and wimple—how could they possibly make a good marriage when of necessity she must keep so much hidden from him?

She twisted the veil into a tight bundle. Adam must not discover that Philip was her brother; he must not discover that one of her father’s housecarls, Judhael, was likely determined to overthrow his Duke’s regime; he must not discover that Emma was consorting with Judhael; he must not…

The latch rattled, and a young girl pushed open the door. She was on the verge of womanhood, her thick dark hair bound in two glossy braids which hung over her shoulders, her blue eyes were wide, and when they met hers, her lips curved into a welcoming smile. She hovered on the threshold with a jug of steaming water. ‘Lady Cecily?’

‘Matty?’ Matty was the miller’s daughter—a child when Cecily had last seen her. Now she was growing into an attractive young woman.

Matty came into the room, clutching the jug to her breast. ‘My lady.’

She made to curtsey, but Cecily was up trying to hug her before she had the chance. ‘Oh, Matty, it is good to see you.’

Setting the jug down, Matty hugged her back, her smile warm. ‘We’re glad to see you too, my lady. We need you.’ She lowered her voice. ‘These Franks frighten me—they frighten us all.’

‘There’s no need to fear them,’ Cecily said, with a confidence that surprised even herself. ‘They won’t harm you.’

Hastily, Matty crossed herself. ‘I pray you are right. But with our men gone…’

‘They will not hurt you. Sir Adam will not permit it. We are his people now, and it is his duty to protect us.’

‘Truly?’

Cecily nodded reassurance. ‘I am sure of it.’

Matty bit her lip. ‘If you say so, my lady.’ She glanced at the washstand. ‘Sir Adam asked me to fetch you hot water.’ Unexpectedly, she grinned, and her eyes sparkled. ‘At least I guessed that was what he wanted. His English is not very good, is it?’

‘That’s kind of you—my thanks. And, no, his English is weak, but he is learning.’

Matty went to the washstand, slid open the wall shutter and tipped Adam’s water out, regardless of any hapless soul who might be walking under the eaves. She refilled the ewer from the jug, chattering nineteen to the dozen. ‘He tried to get Marie to come out of the church to help him translate, but Marie won’t budge. She’s asked for an escort to go the convent—says she’ll take your place. Even though she’s a Frank herself, she refuses to speak to them. That’s one of the reasons I was afraid. I thought if Marie wouldn’t have anything to do with them, they must be evil.’

‘Fear is contagious,’ Cecily murmured.

Matty paused for a moment, head tilted to one side. ‘Aye, maybe it is, an’ all.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyhow, Wilf came back with the mended cart, and Sir Adam and that friend of his—the other knight…’ She coloured and gave Cecily a coy look.

‘Sir Richard?’

‘Aye—him. They’re talking to Wilf.’ Matty giggled. ‘Or rather, they are trying to. They sound right funny when you come to think of it.’

Listening with half an ear, refraining from pointing out that were Matty to attempt to speak Norman French or Breton she would probably sound just as amusing, Cecily randomly pulled a gown out of her sister’s clothes chest. It was periwinkle-blue, of fine worsted, with silken side lacings and cream embroidery at the neck and hem. A length of cream and blue braid lying under the gown was evidently intended for a matching girdle. She also unearthed a linen undergown, and a new pair of hose. New hose—what luxury. Heavens, Emma’s clothes were so beautiful they were positively immoral…

‘You’ll need a maid,’ Matty said eagerly, moving to the bed and beginning to strip it, efficiently separating dirty linens from woollen blankets. ‘He said you would need one. At least that’s what I think he was trying to say. May I be your maid, Lady Cecily. May I?’

‘Mmm?’ Absently, Cecily shook out the blue gown, and though she knew it was vanity—yet another sin to chalk up on her account—she couldn’t help but notice how well it draped. After the harshness of her convent habit, the fabric was soft as thistledown. Would he like her in it? Would he think her pretty? Not that that mattered, of course.

The scent of lavender filled the air, and with it the realisation that Emma must have put bunches of dried flowers amongst her things. Emma. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Where was Emma? Could she find happiness with Judhael? Would he look after her? Overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, Cecily covered her face with her hands. She wanted to scream. Was she hysterical? One moment she was hoping Sir Adam thought her pretty—how trivial!—and in the next breath she was fighting back tears. Was that what hysteria was?

Matty was clattering out onto the landing to the linen closet, still talking, and by the time she returned with an armful of fresh linen Cecily had herself in hand. ‘Gudrun said to change the sheets,’ Matty said. ‘Oh, do say I can be your maid, my lady. Marie’s entering the convent, so she won’t do. And Gudrun’s got too much to do with running the Hall and with the babies.’

‘I’m not sure I’d know what to do with a maid.’

Matty’s face fell. ‘Oh, but you must have one—you’re to be lady here! I know I’m only the miller’s daughter, and there’s much I don’t know about being a lady’s maid, but I can learn. I want to learn. Oh, please, Lady Cecily—let me be your maid.’ Her blue eyes met Cecily’s, clear and quite without guile. ‘I’d like to do more than hoist sacks of grain for my father my whole life.’

‘That’s honest,’ Cecily said, smiling. ‘And, since I happen to think hoisting sacks of grain is not a job for a girl, I agree—you can be my maid. It would seem that neither of us knows exactly what that might entail, so we shall learn together.’

Matty gave a little skip. ‘Thank you, my lady, you won’t regret it.’

‘I trust not. First, let me help you with that bed, and this mess that Sir Adam has created, and then you can help me change. It’s time I went back to the cookhouse to see whether either of your brothers has the makings of a cook.’