CHAPTER FIVE

How can one place be so wild and lonely on the outside, and so insufferably dull and crowded on the inside?

Eyeing off the deep-grey velvet curtains that hang on either side of the huge glazed window in front of me, I wonder if anyone would notice if I slipped behind them and hid for the rest of the evening.

Given the size of the pleats, I suspect not, but can I abandon Cassandra right now?

I turn from the window to take in Glawn Castle’s Small Hall. At least, Winnock told me this was the small one when he gave me careful instructions on where to bring Cassandra for a (late) welcome reception that was planned and cooked by a missing woman before her unfortunate departure.

If this is the small hall, I am not overly keen to take in the grandeur of the large one. The ceilings soar above me, the walls feel as though they have been stretched beyond capacity and then covered in tapestries, and the flagstone floor is strewn with rushes and herbs and laden with tables, large and small, and chairs and stools.

Glawn Castle has proven to be an optical illusion, presenting a modest face with enclosing courtyard to the world. But once inside the unassuming stone entrance, one is drawn into an even larger central courtyard from which two enormous wings spread outward in a V shape.

There is more to Glawn than meets the eye.

A huge tapestry on the opposite wall draws my gaze and I take a moment to admire the skill of its creators, even as I wonder at the pedestrian nature of its design. It seems to depict a very similar view to the one I just saw from the window: the wide expanse of the moors, many stylised windmills and one or two small dark-brown squares that seem to have been placed to fill out the design.

I am absorbed in studying it when Cassandra wanders past, as though casually, as she ‘takes a turn around the room’ with Airl Riding’s wife.

Lady Adelina is a tall, thin woman, who wears her mouse-brown hair drawn back severely into a low bun at the base of her neck. It suits the oval shape of her face, though I suspect the style, which is affected by most of the women in this room, is more for practicality against the wind than fashion.

‘You are well, Maven?’ Cassandra asks with a frown, and I know that she has come to my side on purpose. ‘I was just saying to Lady Adelina what a shame it is that we can stay but three or four days here in Glawn.’

My eyes are drawn to the other side of the room, where Anice is fluttering about, already at the centre of a circle of younger women who are trying to engage her in their chatter.

‘Quite well, my lady,’ I say, pasting on a bright smile as I bring my focus back to Cassandra. ‘I was merely admiring the tapestry. Oh, and the view.’

I do not say which view, as Anice once again captures my attention, the swirl of her sumptuous pale-blue gown a perfect match for the satin slippers on her feet. It is one of six different day dresses she has brought with her for this short visit. I know this because she asked me to unpack her trunks for her, unwilling to leave the task to a castle servant lest ‘something go missing’.

I say ‘asked’, but we were both aware that I am not in a position to say no.

If I am honest with myself, I did not mind the opportunity to close myself inside her well-appointed dressing room, tending to her silent and beautiful garments while she and Cassandra shared cousinly confidences in the bedchamber. It may not have been the steaming lavender bath of my dreams, but at least it was quiet.

Now, though, I am chafing at my inability to leave this gathering and go to the kitchens. I am yet to contact any Beech Circle members who reside in the castle, and my curiosity at the cook’s disappearance remains piqued.

While a missing cook is an inconvenience for those who employ her, it is a major problem for those who work in the kitchens. I can only imagine the consternation and chaos occurring downstairs – similar to that if a general departed the battlefield just as the horns sounded the first advance.

I have known several cooks, both at Aramoor and those I’ve met in the great houses of Cartreff in my time as Cassandra’s companion, and I would swear on my mother’s not-yet-grave that any one of them would rather have died than leave their duties in such a fashion.

In this room, I am a party of one in considering the woman – even Cassandra appears to have forgotten her in the turmoil of trying to carry out Sir Garrick’s orders to charm Lady Adelina and keep her busy while he carries out his mission. Looking at the good lady’s pale face, thin lips and serious expression, I suspect that Cassandra has her work cut out for her.

So I alone shall consider the cook for now.

Lady Rhoswen seemed to think the cook is not a member of the Beech Circle, but it matters not. Our philosophy is to help all women and girls. I think that disappearing, for any reason, falls under that charter.

Plus, I concede, I am curious. I would like to know where she has gone – and why. Puzzles with missing pieces have always bothered me.

Unfortunately, I must wait for Cassandra to dismiss me from this hall before I can leave what I am now considering to be the unwelcome reception. And Cassandra is so busy making nice that it may take some time for her to remember that Sir Garrick has also given me a task to undertake.

No, I cannot wait for Cassandra – it is up to me to have myself removed.

In the most socially suitable way possible.

‘Yes, I was admiring the view,’ I say now, turning to Cassandra and Lady Adelina, quite as though an unseemly amount of time has not passed since my original comment and they have not moved on to discussing the exquisite shades of grey in the thick, woven rug beneath our feet.

They both start and Lady Adelina frowns, but I forge ahead. ‘I was wondering about the windmills,’ I say, in a ‘just too loud for polite company’ voice. ‘How do they work?’

Cassandra bites her lip, and I can see she is torn between admonishing me for my interruption and her instincts that I am doing it for a reason. I smile at her as toothily as I can manage, and she subsides, watching me closely. I am not generally one for toothy smiles.

‘The, er, windmills?’ Lady Adelina echoes, her hands flapping towards her mouth as though I have insulted her. ‘How do they work?’

I continue to smile, but I notice that there is a widening circle of stillness around us. The other ladies in the room are becoming aware of the disturbance and are trying to listen in while giving the appearance of laughing and chatting gaily. It is not an easy feat to manage, but I feel that the ladies of Glawn have had practice.

‘Yes,’ I continue, keeping up the pretence that this is a normal subject of conversation between two Cartreff women who’ve never met before. As though we are taught to question the whys and hows of the world and not simply leave it to the men in our lives.

‘How do they work? What are they for? I have seen a windmill before but it was for the grinding of grain. You have so many, of different sizes, and yet I saw no sign of grain crops?’

I wonder if I have gone too far when her long nose wrinkles as though I have brought a bad smell into the room, but Cassandra steps in.

‘You must excuse Maven,’ she says to Lady Adelina, grasping the woman lightly by the elbow and beginning to steer her away. ‘It has been a long day, and I fear that tiredness has gone to her head. I think what she means to say is that the windmills are very picturesque.’

‘Oh, yes, I see,’ says Lady Adelina, her forehead smoothing as the building frown melts away. ‘They are very pretty, aren’t they? I am not originally from Glawn so I do not fully understand their purpose, but I have always enjoyed looking upon them from the castle.’

‘Indeed,’ says Cassandra, as they begin to glide away, and the pool of silence around us once again begins to fill with bubbles of natural chatter. I wait a beat and then Cassandra stops, as though having a sudden thought. ‘Perhaps you might return to my chamber and bring me my red shawl, Maven.’

I allow only the tiniest smile to lift the corners of my mouth as I bow. ‘Of course, my lady.’

As I make my way towards the door, remembering to restrict myself to a delicate stroll and not stride out the way I wish to do, I hear Lady Adelina ask Cassandra if she feels the cold.

‘Not usually,’ Cassandra answers with a tinkling laugh that would surprise anyone who knew her. ‘But one can never be too cautious in an unfamiliar place, don’t you think?’

Lady Adelina’s response is lost in the murmur of those around her, but I have received the message loud and clear, though I do not need it. I am always cautious – right up to the point where I am not.

Once in the hallway, I toy with the idea of collecting the shawl so I can return with it later, but decide that Cassandra will come up with an excuse for me.

Far better to use the time to find Lady Rhoswen’s laundress and contact the Beech Circle. And if I should find myself having to pass the kitchens to do so, well, who would deny me a quick visit there to make myself known, as any visiting maid would do?

It takes only moments and a few discreet enquiries of passing servants to find myself on the broad stone steps that lead down into the labyrinth of tight hallways, winding their way to the working rooms of this castle.

The plate store, the servants’ parlour, Winnock’s parlour and the linen store are no doubt behind the closed doors I pass, but I follow my instincts (and my nose) to the spacious kitchen at the end of the hallway.

Entering the airy room, I am struck at once by the warmth, which seems to seep from every crevice and into my very bones. The source is an enormous fireplace spanning most of the far wall, a selection of bright copper pots hanging above the fire.

Beside the fireplace, a short hall leads to the wide back door that I imagine stands open on hot days to catch the ever-present breeze. Assuming they ever experience a hot day in Glawn. It was still warm when we left Rennart Castle a few days ago, but in this fief the chill feels settled and permanent.

I stand just inside the door, admiring the intricate brickwork of the fireplace surround and chimney. While the castle walls are all built in a uniform grey stone, the bricks are a patchwork of tones from dull red to deep gold, and bring a lightness to this space that is not present in the formal rooms above. More bricks are underfoot, arranged in a crisscross pattern, while thick dark beams overhead mark the soaring ceilings. Several dark doors to my left no doubt lead to the buttery, the bottlery and other storerooms.

A small team of servants, all clad in dark-grey pinafores and aprons that probably started the day white, are at work at two long tables, which are positioned at right angles to the fire so that no one may complain of cold.

All in all, it is the very picture of a well-appointed, industrious kitchen, the only thing out of place being the curling pale-brown feathers scattered here and there, as though overlooked in the clean-up after plucking.

But there is none of the raucous chatter or shouted orders that usually accompany the creation of a meal in such a large kitchen. Aside from loud chopping, the only sound is the slosh of water from the corner, where an unhappy boy is washing dishes.

‘C’n I help you?’ asks a short, skinny, freckled girl of about my age, rolling out dough with a lot of expertise and not a small amount of aggression. Her dark-red hair is tied back under a big white scarf, making her wide green eyes seem other-worldly.

‘I am Maven, maid to Lady Cassandra of Rennart Castle,’ I begin, preparing to launch into the story I have concocted.

‘Then you should be upstairs in the hall,’ the girl says, thumping the rolling pin into the unresisting dough, the action violent enough to wobble a large, yellow mixing bowl at the other end of the table. ‘Ring a bell. Someone will come.’

The waves of resentment coming from the girl are palpable, but she focuses on her task.

‘I am a servant, like yourself,’ I say, annoyed at her attitude. ‘Why would I ring a bell when I have perfectly good legs?’

The girl stops rolling and plonks her hands on her hips, releasing tiny clouds of flour. ‘Because you don’t belong down here, particularly not right now.’

Her voice wobbles on the last few words, and my irritation disappears. If the people upstairs have not spared a thought for the missing cook, it’s clear that those down here have been thinking of little else.

‘I am sorry,’ I say, walking towards her. ‘I heard about your cook and I’m sure you’re all very worried. Some of my favourite memories are of kitchens and the women who run them, and I know what a hole you must have here in your midst. I promise I won’t take up much of your time. My lady requires a posset, is all. I can make it myself, and be out of your hair.’

She studies me for a moment before her rigid stance relaxes. ‘Thank you for your words,’ she says, before turning to the young girl next to her. ‘Sally, put some milk on to warm.’

Without waiting for a response, she continues. ‘I’m Tillie, and Mistress Percy is a friend of me mam. A friend of mine. She seems gruff but, really, she’s the kindest person. We’re ever so worried about her, but nobody seems to care.’

‘But the Airl has sent men out to look for Mistress Percy,’ I say. ‘Sir Garrick and my friend Reeve have gone with them.’

Tillie bit her lip. ‘Yes, but they went hours and hours after we last saw Mistress Percy. We couldn’t get anyone to take us seriously. I knew she’d never ever just wander off when guests were coming – not with a reception and a banquet to prepare – but Gerard kept fobbing us off, calling her a silly old woman. But she’s not like that. She’s just not.’

As her voice rises to a wail, a grey-haired woman shelling peas on the other table looks over with a frown.

‘Tillie! Settle down – you know how you get, and you know what Sir Brannon said. It’s probably a mix-up of some kind. Get on with that pastry or they’ll be eating crustless pies tonight.’

Tillie grimaces, but resumes her vicious rolling.

I wait a beat before whispering. ‘When did you last see her?’

With a glance over at the woman with the peas, Tillie responds in a low voice. ‘She were here after breakfast because she asked me to go to the storeroom to find the treacle for the tarts she were making.’

Tillie pauses, thinking.

‘And?’ I prompt, aware that pea woman is casting irritated looks my way.

‘She were gone before lunch,’ Tillie continues. ‘I left the treacle with her, and went to the stables to – Well, never mind that. By the time I came back she’d disappeared. I think she was gone then – it were so busy in here, you know, that no one can really remember being the last person to see her.’

Pea woman clears her throat loudly.

‘If you can just show me where the herbs are, I’ll make that posset,’ I say to Tillie.

Tillie leads me to one of the big doors, pushing it open to reveal a large pantry lined with shelves and with bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling.

As Tillie turns to leave, I manage one last whispered question.

‘She didn’t finish the tarts, did she?’

Tillie stops, one hand to her mouth. ‘How did you know?’

‘Her bowl is still there, isn’t it?’ I say, indicating the yellow bowl with a tilt of my head. ‘It’s the only thing out of place in the whole kitchen, apart from a few feathers.’

Tillie’s eyes well up. ‘The filling mix is in there . . . Mistress Gyles wanted to finish, but Mam and me think, well, we think it’s like it’s waiting for her.’

‘Mistress Gyles?’ I ask, reaching above my head for some dried mint and what I think might be borage.

Tillie nods in the direction of pea woman before she walks away, back to the waiting dough. I grab some ginger and lemon before heading towards the fireplace, where Sally is waiting with a small copper pot. ‘Have you some ale?’ I ask, and the girl, who can’t be more than ten or eleven, scampers off.

I put the ginger, lemon and saucepan on the table as close to the yellow mixing bowl as I dare, studying it closely. The wooden spoon is placed neatly in the bowl, as though Mistress Percy has just dashed into the pantry for extra sugar. There are no drips or spills around the bowl, and it seems the treacle filling is all but complete. I can see why Sir Brannon and the odious Gerard assumed she’d just ‘wandered off’.

And yet . . . I can’t help but agree with Tillie that a woman who keeps a kitchen to this standard would not walk away with guests due. I glance around but everyone seems intent upon their tasks, so I edge closer to the bowl, examining the floor where Mistress Percy last stood.

Nothing.

Sally appears beside me, a tankard of warm ale in her hand.

‘Have you got another mixing bowl?’ I ask. ‘Preferably smaller than this one.’

I nudge Mistress Percy’s bowl in what I hope is a jocular fashion, and almost gasp when I notice that the movement has revealed the corner of a small piece of parchment tucked beneath the bowl.

As soon as Sally’s back is turned, I grasp the corner with my nails and drag it from under the bowl, slipping the parchment into my pocket in one movement.

‘Oi! What are you doing there?’

Pea woman is eyeing me with suspicion so I flash her a smile. ‘Just waiting for a bowl. Mistress Gyles, is it?’

She does not rush into the invitation to confirm her name, so I continue.

‘I’ll be gone in a moment.’

Sally arrives, and I turn away from the inquisition and busy myself making a quick posset that, fortunately, Cassandra will never drink. I have never made one before and I suspect that my liberal use of lemon will make it unpalatable.

And the whole time I am grinding and mixing, I can think of just one thing: the crinkle of that slip of parchment in my pocket.

In theory, I should run straight to Sir Brannon and his guards with it, or even share it with Tillie and the others here in the kitchen, but something makes me hold my tongue. The disappearance of this woman on the day we arrive feels wrong. Whether it has anything to do with our mission, I do not know. But I know that I want to show this paper to Sir Garrick, or at the very least to Reeve, before I hand it to anyone from Glawn.

Just in case.

I squeeze another dribble of lemon juice into the steaming tankard, hoping Sally doesn’t come near enough to notice the telltale chunks forming at the edges of the liquid.

‘I’ll be off then,’ I say loudly, to no one in particular, covering the curdled mixture with one hand as I make my way towards the door.

Tillie manages a weak smile, but I can feel Mistress Gyles’s hard stare burning into my back even as I step out of the kitchen and into the hall.

Glancing around, I see that I am quite alone in the passage, so I remove my hand from the top of the tankard, almost gagging at the sight of the curdled posset with bits of dried herb floating on top. If I ever have to make another one, I will make a point of using less lemon juice. Or get Myra to show me how to do it properly.

I wish Myra were here right now, and not just for her posset-making abilities. I do not know the wyld woman well, but her strong, practical presence was a balm and an aid when the Fire Star went missing.

Myra reminds me of Berta, grandmother of the blacksmith at Aramoor – a woman who never left the small cottage the family shared, and yet who had more practical knowledge of the world than anyone I’ve ever known. Berta was probably born knowing how to make a posset – not that she’d ever thought it necessary to show me how to do it.

Among the many things Berta did think necessary, however, was revealing her association with the Beech Circle. Some might marvel at the trust she placed in me by sharing that information with a mere child, but I have met many young members of the Circle since and not one has ever given away her ties without the correct precautions.

‘Can I help you with something?’

A brawny footman, laden with empty dishes, is frowning at me, and I realise that I am standing stock-still in the middle of the hallway with a rapidly cooling mug in my hand. Covering the tankard once again, I smile, trying to look bewildered.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I am fine. I am searching for the laundry.’

‘It’s that door behind you,’ he says, inclining his head to the left before brushing past me and continuing towards the kitchen.

I backtrack, open the door, allowing clouds of steam to escape into the hall, and enter, discarding the tankard next to a pile of linen on a big timber shelf just inside. Closing the door, I feel the steam settle over me like a falling mist, scented with soapwort and lavender and a base note I can only describe as diluted filth.

Through the mist, I see two women bent over huge wooden tubs, both dressed in the same uniforms as the kitchen servants, though these look limp and worn, the starch in the caps and aprons no match for the humidity. Each woman stirs steaming water in her tub, and, as I watch, a side door opens and an enormous dark-haired man lumbers in. He strains under the weight of two full buckets of water, which he pours into the closest tub, sending another cloud of steam into the air.

‘Thank you, Evan,’ one of the women says, and he nods and takes the buckets back out the door, presumably for another top-up. The woman sighs, resting her head against the tall wooden ladle for a moment. I hesitate to approach when she seems so tired, but she also appears to be the one giving the orders, while the other girl is younger.

‘Good morrow,’ I say, and the woman jumps, turning towards me. The girl, around my age, continues her steady stirring, though she eyes me curiously.

‘I am Maven, maid to Lady Cassandra,’ I say. ‘Lady Rhoswen suggested you might have some, er, laundry tips for me.’

I suppress a smirk at my words, conjuring up a vision of the majestic Lady Rhoswen discussing laundry tips.

The woman merely nods. ‘Of course. I am Ana,’ she says, wiping her hands on her apron, before turning to the girl. ‘Ida, I won’t be a minute. These can soak until I return.’

Ida continues her methodical stirring without looking up, as Ana joins me near the door.

‘Welcome,’ she says, taking both of my hands in her slightly damp ones. As I clasp them, I realise how red and chapped they are, the skin rough beneath my fingers.

‘I heard you had shown the symbol,’ Ana whispers, shifting the neckline of her grey tunic to one side to show a cotton shift beneath, an embroidered beech tree with its tiny robin picked out in white cotton near the shoulder. I smile, thinking that the Beech Circle must be entrenched across many levels of this castle if someone had seen the symbol painted on the side of Cassandra’s trunks. All at once, I do not feel as isolated in this strange, wild place.

Out loud, Ana says, ‘Come, I will take you to the linen store and show you what I mean.’

I follow her out into the hall and to the next door, where she removes a key on a leather thong around her neck to gain entry to a small, quiet, dark room where the stacks of linen in shelves on all four walls muffle any sound of the outside world.

‘No one will disturb us, or hear us, here,’ says Ana. ‘But we must be quick.’

‘Is this where you meet?’ I ask, taking in the fact that there is but one tiny window in this small room, and it is an internal one. It lets in light from the larger room next door but no fresh air, probably to protect the dry linen from the mist in the laundry.

Ana laughs a lovely, gurgling chortle. ‘No, we are too many for this space, a dozen at least, though it changes from season to season. There is a small mill nearby, owned by a farmer’s widow, and we meet there.’

As Ana speaks, I study her face, which, though pale – as expected from someone who works indoors – looks as though it would darken to a deep brown in the sun. She seems to be around thirty years of age, and her lively, intelligent eyes are a deep brown, fringed by the darkest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen. I can see only the very front of her hair under the big white headscarf, but it looks like it would also be dark and thick – perhaps even more so than Cassandra’s. Her accent is Glawn, but there is a musical note beneath the harsh vowels, suggesting a childhood spent far away.

‘The Circle is strong here?’ I ask. A dozen members suggests so, but I know that while many hands can make light work, many voices can muddy waters, ensuring nothing is done.

‘We have had some success,’ Ana says with a triumphant grin.

I have to ask. ‘The cook is not one of them? She has not made the choice to disappear?’

I suspect not, particularly with Lady Rhoswen’s words in mind, but I have to be sure before I tread hard across the work of the Beech Circle.

Ana’s smile fades. ‘She is not. We have been trying to find out when she went but no one saw. It is as though she disappeared in a puff of flour.’

‘You have no members in the kitchen?’

Ana winces. ‘Not one. I do have high hopes for the child, Sally, but they are all terrified of the assistant cook, Mistress Gyles.’

‘Most unfortunate,’ I say. ‘What about upstairs?’

Ana shakes her head again. ‘There is a real divide here between those who serve and those who do not – even the Beech Circle has been unable to breach that chasm.’

I nod, unsurprised by the information. Lady Rhoswen would not have directed Cassandra to the laundry if there had been allies above stairs.

‘Well, you have two there now,’ I say, touching Ana’s shoulder. ‘We are here only a few days, but allow us the opportunity to assist if we may.’

Ana’s dark eyes narrow thoughtfully. ‘I will keep it in mind,’ she says. ‘We have a meeting in two nights’ time and a few projects underway. There may be something you can do.’

I allow a beat to pass as we both think of past Beech Circle projects we have each been involved with. Girls who disappear into thin air days before a marriage arranged to benefit everyone but them. Women who are taught to read and calculate so they may secretly assess the accounts abandoned by their husbands to corrupt estate managers. Older sisters who must find new homes when their younger brother inherits the family fortune.

‘And what of you, Ana?’ I ask. ‘Is the Circle helping you?’

It might seem odd to ask this of a complete stranger, but one thing I love about the Beech Circle is the way it allows us to cut to the quick of a matter. You say what you mean, you mean what you say. The complete opposite of most facets of life in Cartreff.

Ana’s face falls. ‘Not yet,’ she whispers. ‘One day, but not yet.’

I ask no more. If membership of the Beech Circle entitles me to forthright questions, it also entitles Ana to keep her counsel. If she wants to tell me more of her story, she will.

‘Soon, then,’ I say. ‘For now, I will keep my ears open upstairs for news of Mistress Percy.’

Ana is nodding. ‘And I will keep you apprised of anything I hear. Perhaps you will join our meeting at the mill?’

‘I would like that. For one thing, I really want to see what those windmills do and how they work.’

‘Oh, I can tell you that,’ Ana says. ‘They’re a surprisingly simple solution to the problem of all the water in the land around here. They act as a pump, pulling the water from the land and pushing it away into channels, leaving dry soil behind for farming.’

Ana pauses, watching my face to gauge my interest and see if I’m following.

‘So, the sails of the windmill drive a pump?’ I ask.

Ana beams at my question, and I feel like a student who has pleased her teacher. ‘Indeed,’ she says. ‘I can take you out to one and show you if you like – there is a large one a short ride from here – but for now I must go back to my work. If I don’t keep on top of it, the laundry pile at Glawn Castle multiplies like flies on a pat of butter in summer.’

We exit the linen store and turn in opposite directions in the hallway. It is not until I am at the top of the stairs that I realise two things: the first is that I’ve all but forgotten the parchment in my pocket, and I feel a surge of excitement at the thought.

The second is that I’ve left the posset on the shelves in the laundry . . . but that is probably for the best.