The hemlock turnover
Bertha Baxter, confidant and lady-in-waiting of the duchess, held a poisoned pie in her hands. She lay the deceitful thing on her lady's prized ceremonial silver plate, making sure she did not sully her unblemished kirtle. Around her, the steady sound of crackling kitchen fire was being disturbed by the idiot Priscilla Fuchs, who was currently wheezing frantically and feebly tugging at her collar. The other shrill voice belonged to Mark Fenwick. He stuttered repeatedly asking Priscilla whether she was going to be alright, which was the most useless thing he could do, given it was self-evident that she was not on the floor braying like a hoarse donkey out of sport. She had brought it onto herself. Why is it that today, of all days, she had chosen to crown herself queen of twits? How could a kitchen worker, even a daft scullion like her, think it was a good idea to sneak out and pick wild carrot and fennel from the pastures? "Wild things taste better than the grown." she had said. Of course a fool like her would confuse the plants and bring bloody hemlock instead. And certainly, no queen is complete without a king. Fenwick, the lovestruck dunce, lacked the sack to tell his plaything off and the wit to refrain from cooking poison. At least Priscilla did a favor to the household by plucking down a spoonful of the deadly filling.
Bertha closed her eyes, redid her already impeccable bun, and focused on the comforting of the low smoldering blaze beneath the cacophony. Her lady, duchess Mildred Muriel of house Hayes, had picked up the lord Duke's sword when he was defenestrated in his own chambers. She promptly slew most of the kingdom's adversaries, raising her esteem greatly in the eyes of the royal court. Today, she returned from her last campaign. Today, she would break fast by offering the head of the rebel general to the king at her own table. Today, she absolutely needed the Hayes household's legendary venison pie. Today, Bertha might be executed.
Her patience cracked. She lifted the pie and peered at where it was on the plate, thorough like a collector inspecting a rare piece. No smudges or black stains. Bertha sighed in frustration. She was hoping she could pass off the blunder as an attempt from a rival to poison her lady. The duchess was sharp, so she would have noticed the discoloration, excused herself from the table, then proceeded to unleash the mother of all tirades at the kitchen staff. That would humiliate House Hayes in the eyes of the king, but at least Bertha would live. If the duchess ate the poisoned pie, she would die and all the mesnie was sure to get the axe. If she tattled to the duchess that the kitchen staff lacked the graces today, that would not change a thing. Failing to have the meal ready was more than a snag during the apex of the lady's political rise. Bertha herself would be accused of slacking and would get the axe. None of the options were brilliant.
The shadow of a frown passed her face as she looked to the window. The sky was still dark, but a fastidious bronze shine peeked over the weald. Bertha judged she might have a little more than an hour at most. She ruffled the well-ironed sleeves of her chemise as she pulled them up. If she acted now, she might just be able to conjure up a miracle. Priscilla stared at Bertha as the stately handmaiden took a knee beside her and held her hand.
"Chin up, child. All shall be well. Steady." Bertha said in the well rehearsed inflection she used for soothing toddlers. She wiped the drool off Priscilla's face and offered a cordial smile. She then rested her other hand on Fenwick's shoulder.
"The best we can do is to let her gather herself. Help me seat her. We sent for the apothecary a while back, so he should not delay."
Fenwick nodded, and slapped himself into a measure of sense. He took Priscilla in his arms and seated her gingerly on a countertop. She still seemed distressed, but had a more measured breathing pattern. While he did this, Bertha moved like a doe in the underbrush. It was too late to prepare the Venison pie, as it demanded several hours of marinading and simmering. Good enough would have to do. She salvaged five potatoes from old crates, two of which were usable. The good venison was already tainted, so she collected some mutton rump and the old, smelly sausage always left for later. They had no fennel, and even if they could spare some, she was now reluctant to use it for fear she would repeat Priscilla's mistake. Bertha slammed the pantry open and scanned the rows of neatly labeled glass jars. Bible leaf, St. John's Wort, silphium, nard from honeysuckle. A load of precious junk. Where was the rosemary? The thyme? Defeated, Bertha reached for the mortar and dropped a handful of long peppercorns. As she grinded, she spared a chiding glance at Fenwick, who jolted up. He scrambled for the flour and cold butter. His clumsy hands soon found a steady beat as they knead the dough.
The next few minutes were spent in the dumbing solace of focus. Bertha's knife dealt deftly with the ingredients. Even in her hurry, her cuts were surgical and quick. Now the cooking. On her right, a flash of flame seared the cubes of meat, potatoes, and carrots. On her left, she tucked a spoonful of butter under the bed of onions now glowing golden. Morning sun reflected on her sweat as she sprinkled salt, sugar, and freshly ground long pepper onto the mixed filling. Synchronously, Fenwick finished shaping the pie. He took over from Bertha, ladling the filling on the coffin with haste and care. It was then that the man in the beaked mask burst through the door.
"Master apothecary, the poor girl has ingested a spoon of hemlock." Bertha said. She gave a curt bow.
"No need for such formality among fellow servants of house Hayes, Bertha. I have told you before. Call me Aldo."
"Master apothecary." Bertha's eyes showed a glint of steel. "The girl is dying."
The apothecary gave Priscilla a cursory examination, as if hoping she were misdiagnosed. He let out a muffled sigh.
"There's no easy antidote for hemlock poisoning, I'm afraid." The apothecary said.
A pall fell over Fenwick. The crackle of the oven fire was unbearably loud.
"What about a more complex solution? Leeches? Bloodletting? Sacrifice to pagan gods?" Fenwick asked, his voice cracking. Aldo raised an eyebrow, but it was obscured beneath his mask.
"If you're open to improbable answers, might I suggest Theriac?" Aldo's bedside manner was dreadful, as usual.
"Master apothecary, if there remains a slim possibility of sparing this girl, I beseech you to act." Bertha said. "We shall endeavor to assist."
Aldo's shoulders slumped. "My apologies. The mention of Theriac was only half jest. I know of no living alchemist that has concocted it successfully."
"I suspect you could be the first. You have knowledge of the recipe, do you not?" Bertha said. Pride was a useful string to tug.
"Well, yes. But it is complex. We would need Saxifrage, malabathrum, hypericum—"
"I would be greatly indebted. Help yourself to the pantry. Raid the gardens. Our lady's interest in all manner of herbs has not gone unnoticed to our suppliers."
"As you say, handmaiden." Aldo said. The apothecary's black robes swayed behind him as he set to inspecting the herbs.
Bertha picked the loose strands of her auburn hair and mended her coiffure. The girl's life was not worth the trouble, but what would they say if a servant perished under her watch? What would her lady say? Also, there was the apothecary. She would have to deal with Aldo later, as he was not known to forget owed favors.
Now, the part she dreaded. The wait.
The dazzling copper rays of the sun were now fully upon Hayes Castle. The chirping of the song thrush could be heard at a distance. Crisp spring air carried the scent of damp earth moistened by newborn dew. A promise of new life. The meadows below glistened as a gust of wind blew, and the grasses waved welcome in unison.
Perhaps God had seen her good deed. Bertha never took a liking to Priscilla quite the same way others seemed to. It was surely a pious thing to set her feelings aside and thrust her hands into the muck for someone who had been dense enough to poison herself. Surely, the good Lord who rewards the righteous would smile upon her today, and allow everything to go right, for just this once. The substitutionary pie had been prepared in great rush, yes, but it was homely, rustic even. Perhaps the duchess would not mind partaking of simple fare after such heroic victory. The king, were he as noble and forgiving as the stories say, might even take the offering in good humor, being drunk on victory as he was. Yes, if only—
Bertha shuddered as she heard the creaking wood in the distance. She rushed to the window and saw that the drawbridge was being lowered. This was not supposed to happen. Yesterday's rain and today's muddy roads should have bought her some time. There was a loud thud as the gates opened wide. A host of banner bearing men surged and erected blue and gold flags depicting a crowned hippopotamus. Trumpet peals pierced the air as an ostentatious, gilded carriage pulled by snow-white Percherons parted the crowds. Bertha's heart sank.
The king had arrived early, and the pie was still soft.
----
Bertha held the tray with the traitorous hemlock pie. The stout, vigilant stone pillars around the long dark hall were dead silent. The plodding of her footsteps seemed to fill the air.
She walked forward, her rhythm only half a pace slower. She revisited the arguments repeatedly in her head. She could fake a malady. She could take the servant's exit and swim over the moat. She could try warning the duchess in front of the king that the pie was poisoned. Perhaps write a note? It all ended the same way.
The great oak door now barred her way. It was too little, too late. Knowing not what else to do, she knocked, and crossed the threshold.
Inside the room with velvet curtains, intricate tapestries, and a wide window that framed the landscape were her lady and the king, laughing in amicable conversation. The teacups had been left to the far side of the table, already drained. A detailed map of the realm was spread directly in the center, with several chips and figures placed in a convoluted pattern. Warm sunlight poured through the window, making both the nobles glow. The duchess Mildred let her crow's feet fully display with an unbridled laugh. Even after all these years, her beauty was matched only by her wit and her wild temper. Her pomegranate locks, lined with fine strands of silver, were out of place already. She always looked radiant despite it. The king seemed a more measured sort. He was regal looking, of course, but he was far less imposing than his station would suggest. His face was symmetrical, chiseled, handsome. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks and ragged dark hair cushioned his crown. It seemed too large for his head. Perhaps it was his posture, but Bertha got the impression he was quite young. Nevertheless, he and the duchess looked comfortable and joyful. In all her years of service, Bertha had scarcely known her lady to be at such ease. The king took a break from his chat and looked at her with warm, hazel eyes.
"Bertha, my girl, are you listening to me?" Mildred said.
Bertha snapped back to her senses.
"What has gotten you so distracted? It's terrible manners to stare at someone so long, no less the king!" Mildred's tone suggested levity, but Bertha could see displeasure in her eyes.
"That is quite alright, duchess Hayes." The king said with a smile.
"Bertha dear, serve the king some pie. You must be famished, Roland." Lady Mildred said.
"I must admit I'm quite curious if the Hayes pie is as delectable as my advisors claim." The king said, rising slightly from his seat to take a better look at the pie. "Half the reason I traveled here is to experience it myself."
Lady Mildred offered a confident smile and signaled Bertha. "I'm sure you won't be disappointed, my king."
Bertha lay the tray down and cut open the pie. Most other pies had a hard, inedible crust. The Hayes pie, however, was so soft it almost crumbled at the touch of the knife. The shard of pie wobbled slightly as it was laid on the dish. Its was buttery and flaky, ready to burst at the touch.
The king raised the small dish to his nose. "It smells interesting." He grabbed an ornate fork and pinched the crust.
"Your majesty." Bertha addressed the king without being asked. "Would you care for more tea?" Bertha did poorly with improvisation, but did not have the luxury of choice now. There was no avoiding being shamed, but she couldn't bear the thought of serving the king the pie that would poison him.
Mildred shot Bertha a look.
"Thank you, but I've had a good cup already." The king speared a good portion with his tiny trident. It oozed with the shiny, brown filling.
Bertha stammered and rushed a smile. "Perhaps your majesty could try the Reginsford blend? I hear it's only first flush—"
"Bertha. My child. Let the king enjoy his pie in peace. You are dismissed." Duchess Mildred said. Her formal tone hardly masked the anger beneath.
The king let out conciliatory laughter. "She was only offering, duchess, I'm sure—"
Bertha lunged and stole the king's pie. She shoved the whole thing into her mouth. She chewed and chewed as everyone stared, petrified. The pie was delectable if you ignored the smell of rat piss. She felt her throat clamp immediately. She breathed heavily, but air was not reaching her lungs.