Keturah and Lord Death

Now all that was left was the judging of Best Cook. I had entered my pie for the sake of Tobias, who had boasted that the queen would eat a dish made of his lemons. There seemed no need now to see the judging, but my friends took me by the hands and pulled me to the cookery tent. Along the way, we skipped and sang, bartered with the merchants, and cooed over babies.

Under the tent, the dignified panel of judges still tasted and conferred. They had placed a blue ribbon on Padmoh’s teacake and a red on her bean soup. And so it was in every category except pies—the judges had yet to decide that category. My heart lifted at the sight of all Padmoh’s ribbons. Of course she would win. Ben Marshall had eyes only for the judges.

Finally, one judge tasted my lemon pie. He moaned and sighed with pleasure.

Then the other judges tasted, and kept tasting more and more until the pie was half gone.

And then they placed a blue ribbon on the plate.

The head judge announced, “This one pie is so exquisite, so unusual, that we must declare Miss Keturah Reeve the Best Cook of the fair!”

My friends cheered and laughed, and the crowd gathered round to congratulate me. “It seems unfair that one pie should win me Best Cook when Padmoh won so many ribbons,” I said. But my protest was taken for false modesty, and the judges begged for my lemon pie recipe.

Though Ben Marshall could not get close to me, he smiled and tried to catch my eye. “There is my bride,” he said to some of those around him, and they raised a glass to his good fortune. I felt sick inside that I had given him false hope, and I took no joy in Padmoh’s sad countenance.

Just as Ben was about to leap toward me out of the crowd, a horn sounded. Its call was long and sweet, a call to come to the square. The crowd moved as one in that direction, I in the middle. I saw that Ben fell farther back.

Again the horn sounded. Musicians began to play as we gathered in the square, and even the merchants and entertainers came away from their booths and stages and gathered to listen.

John Temsland caught me away from the crowd. “We have both won,” he said.

“As well you should,” I said. “You have done well. It made me glad to witness Duke Morland’s unhappiness at not seeing your father humiliated.”

“The king said I should have my wish granted,” John said. “All is going as I planned.”

“And what will you ask?”

“I asked him to give you whatever you would ask,” said John. “It is for you to decide, Keturah. Father knows my heart. Ask to be made Lady Keturah Reeve, and before the hour is up, I will marry you.”

And then he slipped away, and though the crowd closed in around me, I was alone with secret wonder.

The king was in full regalia and wore a crown of gold and rubies. The queen also was dressed in purple velvets and ermine, and wore a coronet of silver and diamonds. She was the only one not looking upon us. She was eating something, and only after several bites did I see it was a piece of my lemon pie.

“Come with us, closer to the king,” Beatrice said, taking my hand. She was still dressed as a boy from singing in the choir. We pushed through the people to the front of the gathering.

There was a call of trumpets, and the musicians ceased to play and the people listened.

“I thank the people of Tide-by-Rood and Marshall for welcoming me to their beautiful lands,” said the king.

The people cheered and whistled and threw their hats into the air.

“I have promised a shoe full of gold to the one who most delighted me at the fair. In the end, Lord Temsland had his choice, and his lady hers. I have my choice, and my queen hers. And so we will divide the gold four ways.

“First, Lord Temsland’s choice. To the lead soprano of the choir, a quarter of a shoe of gold. Come forward, soprano.”

Beatrice as Bill glanced nervously at us and then stepped forward.

I could not hear what she said, but Gretta and Choirmaster gasped when she did not bow but instead curtseyed. The king, however, only laughed, and Bill was invited to remove his cap and let his long braids fall. The crowd murmured and one could hear stifled laughter. At first Lord Temsland seemed somewhat flustered, but his wife’s gentle amusement calmed him, and he was further calmed to see that the king was not disturbed by the disguise.

“Well, the bishop of Great Town has women in his choir,” the king said. Turning then to Lord Temsland, he added, “And if you wish to be in style, you must not put your women in disguise.”

“Your Majesty,” Beatrice said, “if I may, it was my own deception. I beg your forgiveness.”

Gently the king said, “How can I give you that? It would be like offering forgiveness to an angel. But I can give you this.” He handed her a small velvet purse that jangled with gold. “And what would you have for your wish granted?” he asked.

“Your Majesty, only that I might share your gift with someone,” she said.

“And who would that be?”