Keturah and Lord Death

“No, I am going to see John Temsland. I must speak with him.”

“John Temsland? But he will not be seeing anyone,” Gretta said.

“Today is the hunt—the hunt of the hart who lured you into the forest,” Beatrice said.

“But I would not have him hunted!” I exclaimed, remembering his royal beauty.

“You could not stop them,” Gretta said.

“But I must try.” Now my errand was doubled—not only must I tell John Temsland what Lord Death had revealed to me, but I must beg him, or his father, to call off the hunt. As I looked for the young lord, I also clutched the charm and plunged among the gathered men, seizing the opportunity to see which of them was my true love. The eye darted, flickering back and forth in my hand until I myself was jittery and the flesh of my arm crawled. The eye settled on no one.

I looked at old and young, fair and plain, tall and small. I gazed at fat and thin, hairy and bald, rich and poor. Almost all the men of the village were there, though only those rich enough to own a horse would venture into the wood for the hunt. The rest cheered them on, made bets as to whose arrow would bring the stag down, and told my stories of the stag and how he had eluded hunters in the past. Seeing them so animated made me feel the importance of my original errand more acutely.

Suddenly I saw Lord Temsland, though not his son, and I pushed through the crowd toward him. “My lord!” I called. “Please, my lord!”

But before I could reach him, Lady Temsland came on a horse and spoke urgently to him.

“A messenger!” I heard Lord Temsland exclaim. “But we’ve never had a messenger from the king, nor any visitor at all.”

“Husband,” she said, “the hunt must wait. The king has sent his most trusted servant, Duke Morland, and I have persuaded him to take his midday meal with us. Come.” Without waiting, she spun her horse around, and Lord Temsland followed her.

“Set traps for the hart!” Lord Temsland called as he rode away. Some men entered the wood to perform the task, but I sighed with relief as most of the men began to stream away toward the village, distracted from the hunt by a desire to see a messenger from the king. Somehow, in the press of people, I had missed John.

I turned back to the wood, thinking that the young lord might yet be there, but instead Ben Marshall stood before me, tall and comely. “Keturah,” he said, “you are still pale. You have not fully recovered.”

“I slept well,” I replied, and then realized the eye had stopped. No, not stopped, but slowed. It was rolling up and down in my hand as if it were taking Ben in, considering him from the top of his head down to his sod-stained boots.

I felt myself blushing, as if it were I myself who was looking him up and down.

“My, it is warm,” I said, though it was not. Stop, I told the eye in my mind. Stop. But it did not stop. It continued to slide in my hand, rolling up and down and side to side, as if it were trying to see around him, as if my true love might be standing behind Ben. It was all I could do not to squeeze the eye into stillness.

“Are you planning what you will make for the cooking contest at the fair, Keturah?” he asked. He said it flirtatiously, as if those were courting words.

“Oh, yes. Of course,” I said, and blushed again for my lie. Slow was good, I thought, thinking of the eye. Or at least hopeful. The eye needed only time, though time was, alas, in short supply.

“Come to the manor with me, and let us see the messenger from the king,” Ben said.

We walked, and he talked of everyday things, and speculated upon the marvel of a visit from the king’s messenger. I wondered at how mundane his concerns would seem to him if only he knew what I knew.

Through it all, the eye kept rolling. Perhaps it was not working properly, and would not until Soor Lily’s price was paid. Or would it not stop for Ben because one had to be Best Cook to marry him? I scarcely heard a word Ben said after that, so busy was I with thoughts of finding a foolproof way to win Best Cook. If only I had more time!

I looked up at the sky to see how much more day I had.

How had the sun, which moved so slowly when I was doing chores or waiting for the common fire, become a swooping bird of prey? I shadowed my eyes with my hand to look at it, my enemy, and in that moment I knew how to secure the prize of Best Cook for myself.

Ben was saying something about Farmer Dan and holy water, but I interrupted him.

“I must go!” I said. “Goodbye!” And I gathered my skirts to run.

“Keturah …,” he called after me.

“I have a plan,” I called back, “to win me Best Cook!”

Along the way, Gretta and Beatrice intercepted me. “Do you go to find John Temsland, Keturah?” Beatrice asked as they matched their strides to mine.

“First I must go to Lord Temsland’s kitchen,” I said.

“His kitchen?” Gretta exclaimed.

“But why are you going to the kitchen, Keturah?” Beatrice asked.

“To obtain a lemon.”

Both Beatrice and Gretta stopped. “A lemon?” they asked at the same time.