Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [8]
She looked up. Above her, Lymond had come to rest by her chair and, arms crossed, was studying her face. ‘Pigged, I see, with a full set of teeth,’ he observed. And, echoing Jerott, ‘So why in hell have you come?’
Philippa’s gaze, bright and owlish and obstinate, held his to the end. ‘To look after the baby,’ she answered. And disconcertingly, after a second’s blank pause, Francis Crawford flung back his damp head and laughed.
Opening the door after tapping three times, Master Zitwitz, the duke’s household controller, was a little put off by that laughter. He coughed, sonorously, and banged again on the door since, although he was inside the room, none of the three already there appeared to have noticed him. Then Lymond turned, and recognized him at once. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘We were having a little reunion. It’s Master Zitwitz, without whose powerful defence I should have lost my virtue to a soap-merchant’s lady. Sir, you fought like Zeus demolishing Titans: I am your debtor.’ There was a shadow of amusement still in his voice. Philippa, a pain in her middle, sat watching them both.
‘M. le Comte, it was a privilege. I have seen many gentlemen enjoying themselves with a game of cards or a fight, but never a performance of both so aristocratic,’ said Onophrion Zitwitz. Below the opulent features, hairlessly moulded in pink marzipan, the controller’s large body was dressed in sober brown short coat and breeches, with the smallest curled feather in his flat, matching cap. His voice, a musical light tenor surprising in that solid, Swiss bulk, became modestly hesitant. ‘In fact, my winnings being something considerable, I have ventured to show my appreciation. The dressing of meat in this inn is better than in most, but I should not call the roasting-shop proprietor a genius: he needs to be supervised and he is prodigal, prodigal, with the inferior spices. So I took the liberty … you have not yet dined?’
As in a trance, his three auditors shook their heads.
‘Good. I have taken the liberty of preparing your supper myself. This afternoon I chose the butters, the meats and the cheeses; I have made the bread and prepared the pastries. You have not tasted, I think, the roast venison we make in the castle, just moistened with wine, and with our black cherry sauce? The duke, I sometimes think, does not fully appreciate it. He is an old man. I choose his wines and select his clothes and make up his herbs and his physics, but my talents, I fear, are not used to the full. Not at all stretched.’
‘No. You cook? How magnificent,’ said Lymond breathlessly.
Master Onophrion Zitwitz opened the door. Instead of discomfort and anger and scathing voices, the room became filled with trestle tables, linen, platters, beakers and a file of subdued-looking inn servants bearing trays covered with napkins. The smell of choice foods and wines made the pain in Philippa’s middle increase.
‘I am not a gentleman,’ said Master Onophrion Zitwitz. ‘I do not serve. But I control all the practical aspects, you understand, of His Grace’s household. For this it is necessary to know whether a thing is being done well or badly, and why. I may claim, I think, to be an expert in most if not all of the domestic arts. This is no boast: I have documents to say so from noblemen I have served all over Europe.’
He surveyed the smoking tables and the servants melting in orderly decline through the door.
‘Yes. I am correct in saying, I think, that your supper would have been eatable, but not memorable. I have made the sauces a little sweet, for madame’s taste. Permit me to leave you to enjoy it.’
Ten years had dropped from Jerott. He looked at Lymond, and Lymond said, ‘But we are utterly overwhelmed. I cannot imagine why you should have felt any obligation towards us, although I cannot help being happy that you have. But having prepared this inestimable feast, surely you will give us the pleasure of sharing it with us?’
‘That is not my place,’ said Master Zitwitz. He looked pleased. ‘At the baths, yes. But being in service, one does not eat