The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [50]
Weldon had tactfully dispensed with the massive salt-cellar that separated the nobles from the nonentities at a medieval table. Thomas found himself seated between Frank and Rawdon. Liz was some distance away, between the rector and Philip. Frank’s expression made it clear that he did not approve of this arrangement.
Thomas took a heady swallow of wine and slapped the younger man on the back.
“Cheer up,” he said expansively. “Enjoy. Dick has gone all out on this affair.”
“Yes, but that damned actor—”
“He hasn’t got a chance,” Thomas said. He finished his wine.
Frank’s dark hair brushed the back of his collar and waved over his ears. His expression was lugubrious and he was sweating. The Hall was already uncomfortably hot, and the fire was roaring like a blast furnace.
“You know something?” he asked.
“Where’s your crown?” Thomas demanded. “You oughta have—”
“It kept falling off.”
“So does mine. But you’re a prince. You oughta have—”
“You know something?”
“No, what?”
“You’re drunk,” Frank said seriously. “And I’m getting drunk. And I mean to get a lot more…” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Good Lord,” he said.
Thomas read his lips. He couldn’t hear a thing except the off-key bray of trumpets. The door of the Hall opened. Through it came the vision that had astounded Frank.
It might be described as a bevy of serving wenches. Thomas assumed they were village girls; surely the house didn’t have a staff of this size. Kirtled and laced and buskined to a dizzying degree, they were having a hard time controlling their laughter, as their red faces and popping eyes showed. They carried platters and bowls and flagons. As the procession entered, it divided, and down the center marched two stalwart village lads wearing baggy tights and long wigs. Between them they supported a mammoth platter on which sat a swan in full feather.
Thomas knew the swan was safely dead and roasted, its feathers restored to present a replica of life. The idea repelled him, although he knew such frivolities had been common at medieval banquets. He reached for the goblet, which one of the servants had just refilled.
Medieval diet suggests a group of lowly peasants munching stale black bread, or Henry VIII chomping on a leg of lamb while the fat drips down his front. In fact, the haute cuisine of the fifteenth century was extremely elaborate. Thomas let out a low whistle of approval after he tasted the soup that constituted the first course. Wilkes was dissecting the swan at a serving table—“plucking” might be a more accurate word—and his fleshy nose indicated what he thought of the task. Thomas did not watch.
Frank was not so appreciative. “What in God’s name…” he began, indicating the thick liquid in his bowl.
“Blandissory,” Thomas said, dipping into the brew again. “Made of beef broth, almonds, and sweet wine boiled together as a base and strained; then you add capon, ground in a mortar—I suppose they would use a blender today—tempered with milk of almonds and sugar. Add blanched almonds….” He lifted his spoon and studied the nut peeping coyly out of the soup before putting the spoon in his mouth. It was impossible to sip blandissory genteelly from the spoon; the almonds got caught in your teeth.
“Too sweet,” said Frank grumpily. “Give me a nice clear consommé.”
Nobody did. By the end of the first course, even Thomas’s stomach was beginning to feel the strain.
The everyday fare for a lordly household usually involved two separate courses, each consisting of three or four dishes. Picking jadedly at swan, Thomas thought with consternation of one famous medieval banquet that had included sixty separate dishes. Surely Weldon wouldn’t try to outdo that feast.
The subtlety that ended the first course—which had included three other dishes of meat and fish in addition to soup and swan—was a masterpiece. It was borne in by the same grinning footmen who had opened the ball with the swan. A concoction of spun sugar and egg white, it had been formed by some Michelangelo of a chef into a representation of Sampson pulling