Enzio nudged his sister. “A spy, Pia. She must be a spy.”
They had no time to dwell on Signora Ferrelli, because standing before them was a tall woman dressed in a long red smock covered with a crisp white apron. She had long, curly red hair pulled back with a plain black ribbon, and a pleasing, heart-shaped face. To Enzio and Pia’s astonishment, the woman knelt before them and took their hands gently in hers.
“I am the Mistress of Food,” she said, “but you may call me Giovanna. And you are—?”
“Enzio.”
“Pia.”
“Enzio,” the woman repeated. “Pia.” She viewed the children through blue eyes, blue as a bluebird, blue as the bluest flower in the meadow. “So you are the tasters.”
“Tasters?” Pia said. “What’s that?”
Giovanna glanced up at the King’s Men and then back at the children. “So, they did not bother to tell you why you are here?” Giovanna studied the King’s Men a moment and then dismissed them. “I will take charge now. Go on, go on—” She pushed at the air with her hand, much as she might shoo away chickens. Then she took Pia and Enzio by the hand and led them to a table in the corner, where she explained that they would be tasters for the King. “You will taste his food before he eats it.”
“Taste his food?” Enzio said. He grinned, thinking it was the silliest thing he had ever heard.
“Why would we do that?” Pia asked.
Giovanna leaned closer and whispered. “The King has got it in his head that he might be poisoned.”
Pia gaped. “Poisoned?”
“In his food?” said Enzio.
“I know it sounds silly, but kings get silly ideas sometimes.”
“So, you don’t really think someone would poison his food?” Pia asked.
Giovanna swatted the air. “Pah! Look around you. See all these women and girls? See how hard they are working? How gentle they are? You think they are going to poison anyone?”
Pia and Enzio studied the women standing before pots, stirring, and the young girls chopping, all of them laughing easily and chatting amiably as they worked. All wore simple red smocks and white aprons, and each had a plain ribbon or a small flower in her hair.
“So,” Pia said, “you do not think we would be poisoned, then?”
Giovanna chuckled. “No, I do not think so, and you will have some good food to taste.”
Enzio’s eyes widened. “Like what?”
“Oh, cakes and sweets, roasted chicken and pheasant and pork, strawberries and—”
“Oh!” Pia said. “Oh!”
“Although, I do not know everything,” Giovanna said, “and I have wondered—it has crossed my mind—that it could be possible that there is someone out there who would like to poison the King.”
Enzio’s spirit crumpled. “I would not like to be poisoned.”
“We could die,” Pia said.
Giovanna tapped her hands on her knees. “Now, now, let us not fret. You have been chosen to be the King’s tasters, and you have no choice in the matter. If it will make you feel better, I will personally taste all the food before you do. That way, if it is poisoned, I would die, and you would not.”
Pia breathed in the smell of roasting chicken. Enzio watched a cook drizzle warm chocolate over a pile of strawberries.
“Fine,” Pia said. “We will do our duty.”
“Yes,” agreed Enzio. “When do we start?”
On the first day of their new position, they were given rooms in the dark, low-ceilinged servants’ quarters and tasted the food in the kitchen where it was prepared. But on the second day, the King had said he wanted to see them taste his food, and he did not like having to summon them from below and wait for them to arrive. He had the servants move Pia and Enzio to a chamber nearer his own. Pia and Enzio’s new room was larger than the whole of Master Pangini’s hut. The ceilings rose high over them. Tall narrow slits in the walls, which served as windows, let in bright light in the early morning.
“Look, Pia, beds, not straw on the floor.” Enzio chose one of the two beds and sank onto it. “Try yours, Pia. They must be full of feathers, so soft!”
Pia stretched out on the other bed, noting the aroma of fresh linens, smoothing her cheek against the soft cloth. She felt that if she closed her eyes, she would sleep forever, floating along on a cloud.
Whenever the King was preparing to eat, Pia and Enzio were summoned to the dining hall, where food was laid out on a sideboard.
At first they were so daunted by being in the presence of the royal family that they could barely move.
“Go on, go on,” ordered the King. “Taste!”
Pia chose a small morsel of melon, while Enzio selected a raspberry.
“No, no, more than that! Bigger bites!” ordered the King.
Pia munched her way through an entire slice of melon. Enzio ate a dozen raspberries.
The King and Queen and the royal children studied them as they ate. “You feel fine?” asked the King. “Go on, then, try that pork, that goose—everything—go on, big bites.”
Enzio and Pia hesitated. Giovanna stepped into the room and walked the length of the sideboard, checking that the food was properly displayed. “Go on, you heard the King. Eat! Big bites!” Giovanna then whispered, “It’s okay. I tried it all.”
And so Enzio and Pia ate from each serving plate. They ate goose and pork and melons and raspberries and pecans and squash.
“Go on,” urged the King. “Those sweet things, too.”
Enzio and Pia ate chocolate-drizzled berries and sweet tarts and tiny cakes laden with cream.
“You feel fine?” asked the King.
Enzio, suppressing a burp, nodded.
Pia licked her lips. “Very fine, sire.”
That evening, Giovanna brought new clothes for the tasters. For Pia she had a fine red smock, a crisp white apron, black hose and shoes, and a red ribbon for her hair. Enzio was given a new linen shirt, black hose and breeches, black shoes, and a black tunic with a red sash.
As soon as Giovanna left, the children donned their clothes.
“Ho!” said Enzio. “Wish we had a looking glass.” He strode across the room, imitating the straight-backed Prince Gianni. “Do I look fine?”
“Truly fine,” Pia said. “And me?” She minced across the room in tiny steps, imitating Princess Fabrizia. “Do I look fit to be among the royals?”
Enzio bowed, “Yes, Your High, Majestic, Royal Person.”
Pia curtsied clumsily, unaccustomed to such sturdy shoes. “Thank you, Your Majestic Sire.”
They gamboled around the room, bowing and curtsying and giggling until they were once again summoned.
“The King wants porridge before bed. Hurry, hurry.”
This time they were summoned to the King’s antechamber. He was seated on a leather-topped stool before a small, intricately carved golden table, above which hung the King’s seal embroidered in silver and gold and red.
“What’s this?” the King said. “They cleaned you up? You don’t look so bad, cleaned up. Go on, then, taste!” He motioned to a side table on which sat a large serving bowl of porridge, a golden bowl for the King’s portion and two smaller wooden bowls for the tasters.
When the King was satisfied that they had completed their duty, he said, “You feel fine? Off with you, then.”
Pia hesitated. “King?”
“What? What?”
“Your seal there, the King’s seal, what is that one thing there?” She pointed to the object in the corner, the one she and Enzio had not been able to decipher, the one that looked like a worm.
The King was affronted. “You peasants are not familiar with my seal?”
Enzio bowed, feeling that was a good apologetic gesture. “We are most familiar with your seal, but we do not know what that one thing is.”
The King was impatient to eat his porridge. “That? That’s a corno. You don’t know what a corno is?”
Both Enzio and Pia put their hands aga
inst their chests, at the spots where their own coral cornos lay hidden.
“Oh!” Pia said. “A corno.” She leaned closer, examining the seal. “I see that now.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Bother, Bother, Bother
The King, who had wanted an early morning nap so badly, was prevented from taking it when he was reminded that the Minister of the Daily Schedule was awaiting the King and Queen in the official chambers.
“Oh bother, bother, bother. Every day that man prattles on, telling us more things we have to do. I am the King! I am tired of people telling me what to do!” Grumbling in this manner, he nonetheless donned his itchy robes and allowed his Man-in-Waiting to place the heavy crown on his head, and he made his way down the stone steps.
No sooner had he and the Queen settled themselves on their thrones than the Minister of the Daily Schedule entered, trotting across the room in his pointed purple shoes, his round bulk swathed in orange and red silk and velvet. In one hand he held a sheaf of papers. With two fingers of his other hand, he stroked his curling mustache.
“Ahem, ahem,” he began. “On today’s schedule is—”
The King yawned. The Queen leaned back, ignoring the drone of the minister. She was thinking about her hermit, who had this morning been ensconced in her new quarters. The Queen had agonized over the Countess’s warning that the hermit’s lodgings should be spare. It would have been a much more enchanting place with new tapestries and fur throws and flowers from the garden. Lavender would have been nice, and some of those pale pink roses.
However, not wanting to appear ignorant of the ways of hermits, and bowing to the apparent knowledge of the Countess, the Queen had reluctantly ordered simple arrangements. The room was cleaned, a hay-filled mattress was draped with plain linen, and the floor was covered with rush mats. A dark oak table with a washing bowl, a sturdy chair, and wooden candleholders with tallow candles were the only other adornments.
The Queen had felt apologetic when she’d shown the hermit her lodgings, but she did not apologize, for a Queen does not apologize. She watched as the old woman stood in the center of the room, taking in the space. The calico cat made itself at home on the mattress, while the black cat stalked the perimeter of the room, sniffing.
“I hope you find this agreeable,” the Queen said.
The hermit took one more look around the room. “A roof over my old head, walls, a corner to sleep.”
The Queen did not know what to make of this response. Was the hermit satisfied, or was she disappointed?
From a bundle she carried, the hermit withdrew a wooden cross and placed it on the table, leaning its top edge against the wall.
“Would you like that hung on the wall?” the Queen asked. “I will send someone to hang it for you.”
The hermit snorted in an undignified way. “Puh. I can hang it.”
“Oh, well, then. I will let you settle in, and tomorrow we shall meet again here, and—and—begin?”
“Begin?”
“Yes,” the Queen said, “we will—begin. I will come here and talk, and you will offer wisdom.”
“Ah, wisdom.”
The Queen made a hasty exit, not at all sure what to think of the old woman. This hermit business was more complicated than she had imagined.
In the official chambers, the Minister of the Daily Schedule was prattling on: “…and finally, the Ministers of Inventory seek an audience with Your Majesty.” Relieved to be finished with his report, the minister looked up from his papers. The King was asleep, the Queen inattentive.
“Ahem,” said the minister, clearing his throat loudly, “ahem!”
The King grunted. The Queen blinked at the minister.
“Ahem, and finally, as I was saying, the Ministers of Inventory seek an audience with Your Majesty.”
“What?” said the King. “What for?”
“I do not know precisely, sire.”
“Have there been more thefts? Is that what they are coming to report?” This thought made the King extremely agitated. More thefts! He did not think he could bear it.
The Queen reached over to tap his arm. “Now, now, Guidie.”
The minister was eager to flee the room. “I do not know, sire. Shall I add them to the daily schedule?”
The King pulled at the collar of his cape. “Oh, bother! Go ahead. Add them to the other things—the other things you said are on the schedule.”
The King was depressed.
Chapter Thirty-five
A Dream?
Having completed their breakfast-tasting duty, Pia and Enzio were exploring the interior courtyard, free until the King summoned them again. Enzio scooped a handful of polished white pebbles from the path. “Is this real, Pia? Are we really here and not in the dungeon?”
Pia regarded the enormous and glittering castle which hovered above and around them, like a vast stone god embedded with gems. Shafts of sunlight played on the stone, sending off brilliant glints and sparkles. Servants bustled to and fro, carrying sacks of laundry or wheat, while others groomed gleaming white horses. Tall King’s Men, in their red cloaks dappled with shiny gold medallions, stood at attention at every entry and high up on the stone walls, so high up they looked like red birds, their capes fluttering like wings in the wind.
“I don’t know,” Pia said. “It doesn’t feel real.”
Pia shuddered to recall their fear on the day she and Enzio had been snatched from the village and brought to the castle. That terrible ride seemed as much a dream as this idle walk through magnificent gardens. Her head was teeming with new images: of purple and red and gold tapestries, of gleaming marble floors, of tall golden candles, of the royal family in their silks and velvets and gold-embroidered gowns and tunics, of velvet slippers and crisp damask linens, and of the taste of rich foods—pheasant and cream and strawberries and chocolate. She patted her stomach, satisfyingly full for the first time in her life.
So sure this was a dream, so certain that it would evaporate as swiftly as it had appeared, Enzio had pocketed sweet rolls and slices of pork from the breakfast tray, which he now pulled from beneath his tunic, offering some to Pia.
She shook her head. “I am full of strange foods. I’m not hungry. Do you hear that, Enzio? I’m not hungry!” She laughed, so absurd did the words sound to her.
Enzio took a bite of the roll. “I feel like fat Franco!” He stuffed his mouth full of the roll and waddled about, imitating Franco.
Pia and Enzio were in the kitchen quarters nosing around, eager to see what delicious food was being prepared for the day. A servant girl, about Enzio’s age, said, “You are the tasters?”
“Yes,” Pia answered.
The girl giggled.
“It’s funny?” Pia asked.
“We all taste,” she whispered. “A pinch of this, a dab of that.”
Enzio said, “And no one has ever been poisoned?”
The girl laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. “No. No poison. Not yet.”
Pia liked the girl, with her free laughter and her shining eyes. “Does the King know he has so many tasters?”
“Oh, no,” the girl replied. “He thinks we merely cook. How can you cook without tasting?”
Pia thought of all the times she had taken meager bites of Master Pangini’s food as she prepared it, feeling guilty for each stolen morsel.
Enzio reached for a slice of pear. “Why were we chosen? Why didn’t the King choose some of you to be his tasters?”
The girl offered a bowl of newly shelled pecans to Pia. “No one knows. Some say it is because he does not trust us”—she frowned at the thought—“but normally he is a trusting soul. Too trusting. Some think it was Count Volumnia who put that notion in his head, not to trust us.”
“Count Volumnia?”
The girl giggled again. “A plump chatterer who believes he knows everything.”
“But why us?” Pia asked. “There are lots of people in the village. He could have chosen anyone.”
>
“Like Franco,” Enzio said.
“Franco?” the girl said.
“A plump chatterer, who thinks he knows everything,” Pia said.
Later, when Giovanna was showing Pia and Enzio around the castle, initiating them in the whereabouts of all the entries and exits, hidden stairwells, and vast chambers, Pia asked, “Giovanna, what about our master—Pangini? He must have been as angry as an old goat when we didn’t return. He must think we’ve run off.”
Giovanna sat on a stone ledge, leaning against the wall. “You needn’t worry about Pangini. I am sure he knows exactly where you are.”
“How?”
Giovanna winked. “Pangini? You would be surprised what that Pangini knows.” Giovanna was about to continue when a rustling on the steps below made her stop and listen. She put her finger to her lips, cautioning them to remain silent. “Come,” she said, “let us continue exploring.” She led them down a back stairway and across the courtyard and into an arbor laden with roses: pink and yellow and peach and white and red. Reaching a bench, Giovanna and Pia sat while Enzio trawled his fingers through the stones on the path.
“Giovanna?” Pia said. “Do you know of Signora Ferrelli?”
“Signora Ferrelli? Why do you ask?”
“We saw her here the first day. Is she a spy?”
“A spy? Mercy! A spy?”
“How do you know of her?” Pia asked.
“Child, just because we live in the castle does not mean we are ignorant of what goes on in the village. The King and Queen and royal children might be ignorant of such things, but we servants are not. Everyone knows of Signora Ferrelli, especially now, of course.”
“Why?”
“She lives here now.”
“What?”
“She is the Queen’s hermit.”
“Her what?”
“Her hermit.”
“What,” asked Pia, “is a hermit?”