Francesca (13 page)

“Just pull the eggs from the nest. If the hen is setting, pay no attention to her and thrust beneath her. Bring in all you can,” Alonza said, sending her off.

The morning was crisp and the air fresh. Francesca shivered and was glad once again she hadn’t spent a second night in the forest. The carefully fenced-in poultry yard was filled with cackling chickens picking in the dirt. She ducked beneath the low door lintel, wrinkling her nose at the strong stench of its inhabitants, and began to seek for the eggs. The nests were empty but for one old hen who glared at her. The creature pecked at Francesca’s sleeve as she pushed beneath it to collect its eggs. The girl shooed it away, and it flapped from the henhouse, clucking indignantly.

Returning to the kitchens, Francesca proudly displayed her finds. Alonza quickly counted the eggs. “Twenty-seven!” she said. “I always had to send Serafina back, for she didn’t like the stink of the birds and would not stay long enough to get all the eggs.”

“It does stink,” Francesca admitted, “but you have a large group to feed. The birds were mostly in the yard but for one old hen who pecked at me. I shooed her off.”

Alonza chuckled and nodded. “Aye, you can’t let them know if you’re afraid. Serafina was, and how those hens enjoyed bedeviling her.”

When the bread was baked the innkeeper showed Francesca how to use the paddle with its long handle to withdraw them from the ovens. Then she set her to work peeling carrots and onions for the venison stew she would feed the men tonight. Francesca had never peeled anything in her life other than an orange. The knife was uncomfortable. She held it so tightly that it made her fingers cramp. Twice she cut herself, but only slightly. She could hear the men in the dining hall now. Alonza went out carrying trays of eggs, bacon that she had cooked up earlier while Francesca had done other chores, and the round loaves of bread, along with stone crocks of butter.

When the men had eaten and left the inn to hunt in the autumn forest, the innkeeper sent Francesca into the dining hall to retrieve the plates and mugs and leftover food, but there was little of that. Francesca saw there were pots of honey and even salt on the trestles. When she asked about the salt Alonza explained that as the duke owned the inn for the comfort of his huntsmen and he supplied much of what was cooked and served, it was his generosity that brought them the luxury of salt to season Alonza’s cooking and be available for the tables.

Francesca had managed to consume a hard-boiled egg and some bread and butter while she completed her chores. She was exhausted by late morning as she helped Alonza get the stew in two large kettles and swing them over the hearth to cook.

“You’re a good worker, for all I suspect you’ve never been in a kitchen,” Alonza praised her. “Go and rest yourself, for tonight you will help me as I serve up the meal.”

“May I take some bread and cheese?” Francesca asked her. “I am very hungry.”

“Of course, child! I do not want to starve you. Take what you want.”

Francesca took bread, which she buttered, cheese, and an apple. She went out and settled herself on the edge of the woods to eat. The sun was warm on her back. Finished with her meal, she crept upstairs and lay down. Her comforter had a wonderful fresh smell to it after its morning in the sun and fresh air. Pulling off her boots, she lay down and drew the coverlet over her, and fell quickly asleep.

It was late afternoon when she woke again. Rising quickly Francesca got her boots on, folded the down blanket, and hurried down to the kitchens. The kettles with the stew were emitting a steamy fragrance, and there was the smell of baking apples. Alonza gave her a smile.

“Here you are and just in time. Draw pitchers of ale from the keg and place two upon each trestle. Then put two loaves upon the tables, and half a wheel of good hard cheese on each trestle, along with a crock of butter. Each trestle seats eight, so set twenty places for tonight, and put a trencher of bread and a pewter mug at each place, along with a spoon.”

“You have no forks?” Francesca asked.

Alonza laughed. “No, child, I don’t. Forks are for fine folk in the big cities and their
castellos.
Spoons serve just as well, and the men have their own knives.”

“Where did those trenchers come from?” Francesca inquired curiously.

“I baked them yesterday. I bake a supply of trenchers each afternoon for the following day,” Alonza told her. Then I have fewer dishes to wash,” she chuckled. “Now, no more questions and get about your work, child. The sun is near to setting, and the men will be coming in from the forest.”

When she had finished her chores the innkeeper demonstrated to Francesca how she could carry several mugs at a time. “Some men will come in late, and the first thing they will want is a mug of ale in the taproom. They won’t necessarily go directly to the hall to eat. Tomorrow you will serve in the taproom. Tonight you will ladle stew into the bread trenchers. I will give you a small kettle and a ladle. We’ll refill it as it empties. Just move quickly from place to place, filling their trenchers. I’ll tell you now that you’re bound to be pinched. These men are fierce, but actually quite good-hearted. However, you’ll have to put them in their place if you’re not to end up black and blue all over, child. Do what you must to keep them civil, or they will never cease plaguing you.”

Francesca was terrified of the evening ahead. She had never served food in her entire life. She had had servants to perform such a chore. How could she stand to avoid the abuse that Alonza predicted would be visited upon her? If she was serving one man, her back of necessity had to be to another. Men were not permitted to accost her rudely. She was a maiden and delicately raised. Yet she doubted the men visiting the inn knew anything of gently raised maidens, but she had never been required to stand up for herself, defend her honor. She would ignore their advances, Francesca decided. She would move quickly, not speak to anyone, and do just what was required of her.

The men began to enter the inn, and Alonza went immediately into the taproom.

Francesca filled the smaller pot the innkeeper had laid out with a ladle, and peeping into the hall saw several men taking their places at the trestles. Picking up her container she now hurried into the hall to fill the trenchers of the men already seated. Fortunately the earlier diners were more interested in their food, and she was not accosted. But shortly more hunters began to pour into the hall, seating themselves.

“What’s old Alonza cooked up for us tonight?” one asked her as she began to ladle food into his trencher.

“Venison stew,” she answered politely, and then jumped as she felt the sting of a pinch. But Francesca ignored it. More pinches and leers followed as she moved about, serving them. She ignored them all until, to her horror, a big hand slid beneath her skirt and fondled a cheek of her bottom. Unable to help herself, Francesca shrieked, dropped her almost-empty kettle, and burst into tears.

A horrified silence descended on the hall and then a loud voice boomed, “Now, see what you’ve done, Pippino! You’ve gone and made the maiden cry. Did Alonza not warn you she was not to be harmed? A friendly pinch is expected, but you put hands on the maid and without her permission.” The speaker was a huge man, well over six feet in height with a large body to match. His long hair was pulled back and tied.

“I didn’t mean to do harm, Bernardo,” Pippino defended himself, “but the maid is so pretty I couldn’t help myself.” He was not small but appeared so before Bernardo.

“Apologize to the maiden, and take your meal into the taproom,” Bernardo ordered. “Ye’ll eat there for the next few days. The morning meal too.” Bernardo then went over to where Francesca stood sobbing and picked up her kettle and ladle, saying, “Get yourself back into the kitchen now, Cara.” He handed her the pot, the ladle now in it.

Francesca managed to stop crying. She took her equipment from him and said, “
Mille grazie, signore,”
and bobbed a little curtsy.

Bernardo was not used to receiving such courtesies. Nodding his head at her, he growled gruffly, “Go on, now.”

Francesca fled gratefully, not waiting to hear Pippino’s apology.

Alonza, who had come from her taproom at Francesca’s sound of distress, was waiting for her. “I’ll fill the pot, child, and serve the rest of the supper.”

Francesca sniffled but then said, “I’ll get the bowls with the baked apples.”

Alonza nodded, pleased by the girl’s recovered strength.

October turned into November. Francesca grew surer of herself around the huntsmen. Bernardo seemed to have taken it upon himself to be her protector. The chastised Pippino was allowed back into the hall after two days because of Francesca’s intercession to her self-appointed guardian, who, it turned out, was the duke’s head huntsman. She was learning how to twist and turn herself as she made her way through the taproom, carrying several mugs of ale for Alonza’s guests. She didn’t avoid all the pinches aimed at her, but she did escape most of them now.

She knew the names of all the huntsmen now, and had begun to banter back and forth with them as she worked. To her distress, her hands were becoming rough with all the work she was doing. Alonza had set her to certain chores she herself was no longer able to do because her joints, she told Francesca, ached too badly. The silk merchant’s daughter found herself scrubbing the floors. She also did the laundry. As the days and nights grew colder she developed chilblains on the knuckles. I never realized how hard other people worked to make my life so comfortable, Francesca thought. Well, at least if her parents refused to have her back, she could hire herself out as a housemaid or cook’s helper. Then she smiled to herself. Her mother would be horrified, which would probably make Orianna forgive her or at least take her back.

But did she want to go back to Florence? To that insular life that she had lived until now? She could always remain here with Alonza. Her life had become interesting, even if every bone in her body ached each nightfall. She sighed. Of course she had to go back. She was Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo’s second daughter and meant for greater things than being a serving wench in a forest inn. Briefly she thought of Rafaello, but dismissed him with her usual practicality. He hadn’t loved her, and she wasn’t going to spend her life without love.

Then one blustery evening at the end of November the inn door swung open, and a tall bearded man stepped into the taproom. Bernardo was the first to spot him. “Carlo!” he said. “I wondered if we would see you at all this winter. Come in and get warm. Alonza! Your favorite is here,” he called out to the innkeeper.

She bustled out from the kitchen with a cry of delight. “Carlo,
amore mia
! It has been forever since you have come. Have you any news, good or bad, to report to us?” She gave him an enthusiastic hug.

“The wedding of the duke’s son has been postponed,” the tall huntsman reported.

“The blushing bride did not think there was enough time to prepare the wedding she had always dreamed of, and she wanted her parents to come from Florence. So we must wait until springtime for this great event,” Carlo told them with a laugh. “Duke Titus is not pleased, but the
Signore
Rafaello will indulge the maiden. It is said he is madly in love with her. So instead of a ducal alliance on December first, the wedding of Valiant Cordassci to Louisa di Genoa will be celebrated quietly and privately. He is the lad raised with our Rafaello since the time they were four. He is always at Rafaello’s side. Oh, and France is sounding as if it would go to war again, and ’tis said the Venetians have made some sort of secret alliance with the Ottoman sultan. The pope is furious, but Venice denies it.”

Those in the taproom all listened avidly, but none more so than Francesca. So they had postponed the wedding. She would wager that her parents were indeed coming from Florence in the spring. She had not requested their presence in December. Orianna would be intolerable with her victory. She had hoped to keep them away from the wedding. She realized now that the bay had returned to its stables, and her whereabouts were being sought. Even after two months. Poor Terza and little Roza. She knew they would be worried, but Terza would not give her up until they laid Francesca’s dead body before her faithful servant.

Carlo went on giving them the latest gossip. He took the mug of ale she handed him but didn’t even bother to look at her. That was all to the good. “Who is he?” she murmured to Pippino.

“He hunts in the farthest part of the forest,” Pippino said. “Sometimes he comes in for the winter, and other times he remains. They say he has his own cabin. We see him now and again but not often. He’s like a shadow in the night, but old Alonza has a soft spot for him, for when he comes he brings her the finest game,” Pippino answered her.

“When you go back into the kitchen you will find something that he has left for her.”

Pippino was correct. Returning to the kitchens, Francesca found a string of six fat rabbits already skinned, gutted, and cleaned, ready for roasting. There were also three plump ducks and a goose. Alonza was going to be so very pleased. She jumped at the sound of a deep male voice.

“I’ve hung a carcass of venison in Alonza’s cold pantry. Who are you? Certainly not Serafina, who had a crooked nose and a slight limp,” he said.

Francesca turned about to face the huntsman known as Carlo. “I am called Cara,” she answered him. His beard was quite lush and full but neatly barbered. His eyes more dark than light.

“You do not look like a serving wench,” Carlo noted.

“And yet I am,” Francesca responded. “I am only Cara, who was lost in the forest and found the inn just after Serafina left. Alonza took me in, and now I toil for her in exchange for my food and pallet. I am really nobody,
signore
.”

“You are beautiful, Cara,” he told her. “Would you consider sharing your bed with me tonight?”

“No, she would not!” Bernardo said, stepping into the kitchen. “Alonza has told us that Cara is a good maid and not to be trifled with, at peril of losing our private parts,” he explained. “Do not attempt to seduce her with your charming ways,” the big huntsman said with a chuckle. “You would relinquish Alonza’s favor if you did.”