Just Desserts for the Chivalrous

“There’s nothing to be worried about. It’s a banquet like any other at Blount Manor,” Mabel shouted over the squawks of the chicken dangling by its claws. She deftly bludgeoned it against the table before wringing its neck. Catalina blanched, feeling as faint as the fowl in the kitchen maid’s hands. She scanned the room to take her mind off the massacre that would become her dinner and the one that awaited. The kitchen’s sharp, pointed instruments swam in her vision so she focused on pitting the cherries for the evening’s final course.

“ ‘Course, it isn’t every day you’re betrothed to a man who will inherit the manor and all its blessings. But that’s the fault of your father,” Mabel continued as she cheerfully plucked the chicken. “Seems his ability to fill the Flanders mills does not extend to his ability to sire an heir. Though not for lack of trying.” The maid furiously rubbed the poultry flesh with cumin and saffron until it was a sickly yellow. “I declare, if his dalliances with the serving girls leave me shorthanded again, I’ll bear him a son myself and save the manor the trouble.”

“Mabel, guard your tongue. Pippa died from the pestilence and so you are shorthanded, not by misdeeds of the lord, my husband.” Lady Petra Blount swept into the kitchen, attired in the wool gown she preferred for entertaining fellow nobility. She gestured for Catalina to join her. Mabel bowed her head, chastened. Catalina followed her mother like a filial daughter, fingers stained with the cherries’ bloodred juice

The pair walked in silence to the banquet hall. An oaken table the length of the room was laden with pewter plates and elaborately etched chalices. The Blount crest crowned each arch in the vaulted ceiling; celestial navigation for generations to come. Heraldic flags of the banquet attendees lined the walls, appealing for admission to history. Petra paused at the head of the table.

“Preparations for your betrothal are complete, my darling Catalina. Your father exercised his privileges as the most profitable merchant in the region and invited four eligible suitors to dine. You observe their standards on these walls. Can you tell me who they are?”

Catalina recited the details of the men written into her prayer book from birth. “Lord Osric’s estate supplies Fountains Abbey. Lord Piers hails from Salisbury, where hunting is plentiful. Lord Kenric is a shipping magnate from London.” She drew a shaky breath, earning a sharp look from her mother before rounding out the list. “Lord Finnian is our agrarian neighbor in East Anglia.”

With a satisfied nod, Lady Petra affixed her gaze to the opposite wall. “I need not remind you that your preference bears little weight in these proceedings. Lord Blount will determine which of these suitors benefits the manor.”

Catalina’s gut twisted in the way it always did at the subject of her betrothal. Lady Petra cupped her daughter’s pale cheek. Their matched cornflower blue eyes met.

“I’ve stood where you stand now,” her mother’s voice wavered. “My marriage was a tribute to the Blount family and I have no regrets over my contribution to its legacy. However, I know the difference a partner’s conduct makes in a union.”

She stared past her daughter at the heraldic flags on display, remembering the long line of housemaids and serving girls suddenly relieved of their positions. “And so, I vow to influence an ideal match for you.”

Catalina pressed her palm against her mother’s, relishing the rare maternal warmth.

Petra refocused on the trial at hand. “Your father will be seated here, myself at his right and you at his left. You will enter the hall with the first course, whereupon you will greet each lord with an offering of sugared almonds. Please demonstrate the correct serving sequence.”

After marking the steps of the banquet proceedings until her mother was satisfied, Catalina resignedly retired to her chamber. Though Petra pledged her support, she knew her fate would be decided by duty rather than devotion. The lords each had much to offer: wealth, family, and security. But only one captured her heart.

That heart, and perhaps the contents of her stomach, leapt in her throat as she stood at the elbow of Lord Cormac Blount. Though she was the prize on offer, her father’s stature and boisterous nature commanded the table. Wine flowed freely in the chalices of his guests and conversations around the table exceeded the volume of the village alehouse. Catalina dipped her chin, swaying her wimple to shield herself from the lords’ burning glances. The bowl of almonds rattled with each step.

“My retinue surveyed the lambs afield on our way in. Will we be dining on them tonight?” Lord Kenric boomed at a volume unnecessary for the close quarters. He was seated nearest to Lord and Lady Blount: her father’s favorite suitor and he knew it. A union with a shipping merchant would save the estate on barter and customs. Kenric did not acknowledge his potential bride as she served him, digging his sun-speckled hand into the bowl and tossing a handful of almonds into his mouth.

One seat down, Catalina glanced into the shrewd eyes of Lord Piers, feeling like a doe in the sight of a longbow. He forced her to wait while he licked pea soup from his spoon then used it to serve himself. She’d visited Lord Piers’ estate on a pilgrimage to Salisbury Cathedral. Though his land was scenic and the estate long fortified with wealth, her father found little reason to support this match. All the better in her opinion, for Catalina didn’t relish being hunted after each sunset.

Lord Osric, in the center seat of the table, followed the example of the brotherhood at Fountain’s Abbey and offered thanks to God as Catalina presented the dish. An alliance with the Abbey gave the Blount family influence in the ecclesiastical sphere; a currency they didn’t yet possess. Osric signaled that Catalina should spill the almonds on his plate. He waved her off when he deemed his serving sufficient.

Heart racing, she approached the furthest seat and presented the final offering to Lord Finnian. Catalina tipped the bowl gently over his trencher. A single almond rolled clean of its sugared crust plinked hollowly, a pittance against the gleaming pewter. Finnian turned to face her, eyes crinkling in amusement at receiving the scraps from her table.

She jerked her arm back in shame and collided with Lord Osric’s silken bell sleeves. Finnian grabbed Catalina’s hand to steady her. Flushing, she pressed the empty serving dish to her kirtle and hastened to her seat.

Flaunting the small breach in propriety, Catalina did not dare to meet her mother’s eye. She discarded the serving bowl and unfolded her fist. Finnian stealthily slipped her a small bundle of greenery assembled into a nosegay: a reminder of the day they met. She tucked the bundle of herbs into her girdle.

As a child, Catalina frequently attended market day to linger in her father’s stall and caress the hanks of wool in all the colors imaginable. Occasionally neighboring children struck up a game until shopkeepers shooed them away. On one such day, a handsome boy with auburn hair curling like a shorn lamb offered Catalina a braided knot of pea shoots. For all the idyll of her estate and the opulence of the manor, she had never seen anything more beautiful. His name was Finnian.

As Catalina became a young lady, her mother directed her focus away from the machinations of the market and toward the operations of the household. Yet Mabel, always a willing accomplice, nurtured Catalina’s relationship with the young man. She furtively served as an emissary between the lovers, delivering scores of notes and nosegays

The second course ripped Catalina from her reverie. The thick capsule of pastry on her plate reminded her of the chicken now encased in its flaky vault. Lord Piers thoughtlessly thrust his knife into the center of his pie, ignoring the custom of reserving the first bite for the host.

“I say, man. Honor your host before filling your gob,” Kenric scolded smugly, eager to embarrass a rival. He waved his blade vaguely in Lord Piers’s direction. Lord Osric opened his mouth to agree, spraying pastry crumbs across the table. If Catalina didn’t feel sick at the prospect of eating before, she certainly did now.

Lady Petra cleared her throat, ignoring the tussle at the table. “Lord Finnian, thank you for your chivalrous conduct. I believe the vegetables in tonight’s soup course were supplied from your lands. Catalina, the peas offered a particular sweetness, wouldn’t you agree?” She offered Catalina a sly grin. Finnian bobbed his head in acknowledgement but said nothing, chewing carefully.

Lord Cormac looked up from his chalice, unaccustomed to hearing his wife speak in a formal setting. He squinted at Lord Finnian at the opposite end of the table. He’d forgotten he’d invited his neighbor at all. With a shrug, Lord Cormac turned back to Kenric.

“We have eel in the next course. I expect you encounter several in your travels.”

Kenric forced down large chunk of chicken pie, his throat bobbing. “Eel is a rare delicacy for the table, my lord, but they’re common enough in the waterways. The rarest creature I’ve encountered was a pod of porpoise, though my damn sailors insisted they were a choir of sirens.”

The other suitors grew restless, wilting as Lord Cormac showered his attention on the shipping merchant. Osric and Piers salivated, starving for entry into the conversation. Finnian supped heartily at his chicken pie, watching Catalina with undisguised longing.

The promised eel arrived in the third course in palm-sized slabs, scales doused in vinegar and roasted to a crisp. Eager to redeem himself, Piers precisely cut his eel into miniscule pieces and chewed with a rapturous expression. Kenric skewered the segment with his knife and lifted the entire portion to his lips. Catalina slipped a piece of the fatty flesh into her mouth. Choking down the chewy morsel, she stole a glance at Finnian. He puckered, souring at the vinegar on the tongue and Catalina stifled a laugh. Osric paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, appalled by this coquettish behavior.

“My Lord,” Osric said as the venison course was announced. “I want to utilize this venue to offer the Abbey’s gratitude for supplying our vestments. God’s favor shines on you when we glorify Him with the product of your estate.” He lifted his glass in tribute.

“It’s the least I could offer to Fountain’s Abbey. Without Him, none of this would be possible,” Cormac murmured, completing a third chalice.

“Beautifully spoken, sir. Can we count on your continued support of the estate and Abbey in other ways?”

Sensing his favor slipping away, Kenric cut in. “My family also appreciates your tribute, Lord Blount. In fact, the summer’s shearing is crossing the channel as we dine. All that stock, floating vulnerable on the water. If the business was in the family, we could run twice as many loads. My brood of sons will handle all aspects of the industry from lambing to transport to market day.” The eel left a greasy sheen on his cunning smile. Finnian’s countenance soured further.

The earthy smell of venison signaled the fourth course. Catalina typically favored venison. Its hearty and slightly sweet flavor made her feel invincible, like she could run with the herd. Dutifully waiting an interval before taking her first bite, she studied the men around the table.

A minstrel show played in her head as she imagined her life on each of their estates. There might be long, lonely days while her husband was away at sea. There might be reminders of violence and carnage everywhere she looked; the smell of field dressed bucks permeating even the most luxurious fabrics in the household. There might be bare knees on a cold stone floor at Matins and seven more canonical hours besides. Even her mother, a Lady of a prosperous manor, was led by bit and bridle of propriety. The best she could hope for was a handler with a gentle grip.

Finnian was the gentlest of the bunch. His venison was yet untouched, his chalice half-full. Throughout the dining, carousing, and posturing of this banquet, he remained chivalrous and polite. Still, even he was unable to compete with the prosperity of shipping, ancestral lands, or the grace of God by the circumstances of his birth.

Lord Blount would choose what was best for the manor. Lady Blount vowed to support her daughter, but her husband commanded her allegiance. The success of Lord Finnian’s estate hung in the balance of his conduct. It fell to Catalina to secure her happiness.

She dropped her knife and fork to the table with a clatter. Without bothering to push back the sleeves of her kirtle, she dug her fingers into the steaming meat. Beef broth and red wine dripped down her chin as her teeth sunk into the lean game. Catalina chewed with gusto, unbothered by the bolus slipping between her lips. Finnian was the first to notice; his eyes hardly left her all night. Her heart fluttered as he reacted not in horror, but with admiration. Emboldened, Catalina tore into another bite.

Lady Petra bucked under her husbands grasp, alerting him to his daughter’s conduct. His face purpled and his shoulders crept up to his ears, threatening to boil over. Before he could chastise his daughter, Lady Petra stood.

“Catalina!” she intoned, voice was full of warning.

Catalina halted, steeling herself for the consequences. The entire hall was still. No man glugged from his chalice or dragged a knife across his plate. Everyone waited in breathless anticipation for a pronouncement from the Lady of the Manor.

Petra studied her daughter. Though a young woman sat before her, she saw echoes of the past. The sensitive toddler barely in turning shoes, able to anticipate her father’s tempests of temper. The headstrong young woman who weathered her own strident scoldings. The Lady understood: Catalina was not disobedient for the sake of rebellion. She offered an opportunity for her parents to save face. A filial daughter, though not at first glance.

“My lords, I apologize for my daughter’s uncouth behavior. She is not fit for your company.”

Cormac grasped his wife’s wrist, as his hopes for generational prosperity across multiple industries unraveled before his eyes.

“Catalina,” Lady Petra commanded, ignoring her husband. “You are dismissed.”

Venison juice splattered the tabletop as Catalina abandoned her meal. The lords erupted in a chorus of threats and wrath, but she paid them no heed. Leave the fallout for her father to quell with the promise of more wine. She passed through the kitchen and absconded to the orchard with dish of cherry pottage.

With each bite, Catalina promised herself a sweet future. Soon, Finnian appeared by her side. Catalina leaned into her lover and offered him a morsel of dessert.