Keturah and Lord Death

“Keturah,” Beatrice said finally, “why are your yellow lemons so … orange?”

“It is because they are oranges, and not lemons,” Gretta said, yanking Tobias’s ear. I stayed her hand.

Tobias began backing away. “But—but the man said they were lemons, or as good as. Sweeter, he said.”

“Go back, Tobias,” Gretta said. “Go back and get lemons. Yellow—yellow!—lemons!” She chased him out of the kitchen and threw two of the oranges at him.

I ran after him. “Tobias!” I called. “Tobias! Stop!”

He stopped, panting, and regarded me cautiously, as if I might try to pelt him with fruit.

“Have them!” I said. “Surely after your long journey you at least deserve to eat some.”

He gazed longingly at the oranges. “I was tempted many times,” he said, “but I didn’t want to eat even one of your … lemons.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “How was I to know, Keturah? Have I ever seen a lemon before? Or an orange, for that matter?”

“Come, Tobias, come in. Rest yourself,” I said. “Come, I have been cooking pie.”

He followed me into the house dejectedly, and Grandmother served him. Gretta scowled at him, and Beatrice sniffed often and refused to look at him.

“When I am done, I shall go again to seek out lemons for you,” he said.

“Never mind, Tobias—only if you can.”

“Of course he will,” Gretta said. “And not just for Keturah, but for John Temsland and the queen.”

Tobias nodded, determined.

“You must not go to Great Town, Tobias,” I said, “for fear of the plague.”

Beatrice patted his hand. She had already forgiven him for orange lemons.

* * *

When Tobias left, I realized with a start that the forest shadows touched the cottage.

No. I could not make myself go. Not yet. Didn’t I have to take samples of my pies to Cook for her opinion? Surely he could wait. Surely he had forgotten about me, busy as he must be, escorting popes and peasants and emperors to their doom.

I put a large piece of each pie on a tray, went out into the evening, and fastened my eye upon the cookhouse where Cook slept in a tiny side room. Cook must taste my pies now and tell me which one would win me the prize. She would be angry with me for waking her, for she was always early abed, but wake she must, for Ben Marshall must love me, and must marry me, Best Cook of the fair.

True, I did not see in him my one true love as yet, and the charm’s eye did not stop for him, but that could change at any moment. I felt a pang of regret that Padmoh, who wanted him too, should have to fail in her objective if I succeeded. But I consoled myself that her interest was the man’s garden and not the man himself.

I was halfway between my home and the cookhouse when a mist of cloud began to creep across the early-risen moon. It darkened the ground enough that I did not see a small depression, and I stumbled. Immediately I was steadied by some force I could not see, and then, as if the coming night clotted into a visible personage, I perceived that Lord Death was beside me.

We walked together in silence for a time, and then I said humbly, “Sir, I was going to come, truly.”

“And you shall come,” he answered, “but I thought to remind you.”

His lips seemed very close to my ear, but I did not look at him.

His cloak billowed out behind him and brought the full night. He made no effort to touch me, but I felt beside me a man. I looked up at his face, severe and handsome, and saw sorrow stretched along the lines of it.

“I believe I will not stay with you tonight, Lord Death,” I said softly. Could he hear the doubt in my voice?

He made a small bow and was silent.

“What does it feel like to die, sir?” I asked. “It hurts—I know only that.”

We walked for some time in silence. At last he said, “It is life that hurts you, not death.”

I shivered to think of the green-black night in the forest, and said, “My lord, why do you trouble me by walking with me in the dark? It is cruel.”

“I think to protect you from them,” he said.

And then, without turning my head, I saw the black shadows of men against the blue-black night. They were watching me, and still, and silent.

“It is gallant of you, sir,” I said softly, “but I am more wishing of their company than yours. And it is your company, after all, that makes them fear me and hate me.”

He said nothing. I was almost there …

I ran the final steps to Cook’s house and pounded on her door. “Cook!” I cried. I pounded again. “Cook!”

I could hear her cursing within, and then she swung the door open. She was dressed in her nightclothes and wore a woolen nightcap on her head.

“What is it? What? Has the moon fallen out the sky?”

“Cook, you must taste my pies!” I said. I glanced behind me to see nothing but moon-washed dark, and slipped into her kitchen.

She stood speechless, perhaps for the first time in her life. I picked up a piece of pie and shoved it at her. “Eat,” I said, “and tell me if I will win Best Cook.”

She took the pie and said, “You are mad, but they say mad cooks make the best sauce.”

Cook chewed and tasted each pie once, twice, thrice. At last she spoke.