Friday November 6

Happy Friday everyone! Today our story takes us back to Nailha in the kitchens of Vandaven house. But first, since I write fiction, many of my facts come from within my own mind, but often they are based on things I have researched in the real world, so here are some interesting facts I found in my research!

Cameline sauce (sauce cameline or sawse camelyne) was a popular spiced sauce in medieval European cooking, particularly during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. It;s name derives from its cinnamon-brown colour, as cinnamon was one of its principal ingredients.

Although its exact place of origin is unknown, some of the earliest surviving recipes appear in medieval French culinary manuscripts, including Le Viandier de Taillevent and Le Ménagier de Paris (c. 1393). It also appears in the English cookbook The Forme of Cury, compiled around 1390, demonstrating that the sauce was known in both France and England by the late fourteenth century.

Recipes varied, but commonly included cinnamon, ginger, cloves, mace, pepper, vinegar or wine, and bread to thicken the mixture. Some versions also incorporated currants, nuts or sugar. Cameline could be served either cooked or uncooked, depending on the recipe.

It was primarily used as an accompaniment to meat and fish, making it a familiar feature of medieval dining. Surviving recipes and culinary manuscripts document its use in France, England and Italy, although we cannot determine exactly how widespread it was among ordinary households.

By the Victorian period, cameline had largely disappeared from everyday cooking. However, it had not been entirely forgotten. Isabella Beeton mentioned it in her Book of Household Management in 1861, discussing its medieval ingredients and preparation as an example of an older culinary tradition.

Though no longer a common household sauce, cameline offers a fascinating glimpse into medieval European cooking, when richly spiced, sweet-and-sour sauces played an important role in the dining traditions of the time.

Nailha

The room I was settled into was a lot bigger than I had expected. It was perfectly square, about eleven feet in both length and width, with a large window in the upper far wall that let in a fair amount of natural light. A single, neatly made bed sat beneath it, with a dresser to the side, beneath the window sat a side table with a ceramic washing bowl and a stack of clean rags.

"I thought I was to share a room?" I glanced at Ms. Whelbrat.

"Lord Terran insisted I see you settled in well. He would expect no less than the best available room," she sniffed. "I would take care, Ms. Monaris, not to rub the fact in many faces, there have been some who've waited a long while for the privilege of a private room."

I pressed my lips together tightly, wondering what would happen if I refused the gesture. I was trying for a new start, the very last thing I needed was to piss off my coworkers by taking what should have been theirs.

"There now, there's no point scowling like a drowned fish, get your things settled and then come find me in the kitchen and I will set you to your duties. Your uniforms are on the bed."

With that Ms. Whelbrat left my room, closing the door behind her.

I plunked myself down on the end of the bed and let out a long breath. It had been a very strange start to this day. Not at all what I had expected.

I didn't have much to my name, so putting my things away took an embarrassingly short amount of time. I changed into the uniform, a faded blue-gray linen dress, pressed, as I had seen on the others. It had almost no signs of wear, a small stain on one sleeve, only noticeable when I looked closely. It fit a little loose in the body, which would be a relief in the heat of the kitchens, with sleeves that could be easily rolled up past my elbows. A heavy white apron went over that, and a white mob cap for over my hair, which I re-braided and pinned tightly against the nape of my neck. I took a short peek out my window, which looked out onto the kitchen gardens, before I straightened my shoulders and headed back into the chaos.

The kitchen was just as busy as the first time I had stepped foot into it. But this time I had a moment to appreciate what I was seeing. It was nothing short of amazing. Unlike most of the places I had studied or worked this room vaulted upward, the ceilings rose three stories with dark wooden timbers crossing overhead. Tall narrow windows lined three of the walls that stood independent from the rest of the palace, allowing warm morning light. They were interspersed by wooden doors which, for the moment, were all left open to allow for airflow. The floor was cast in pale stone, scrubbed clean and worn smooth by generations of footsteps with shallow drainage channels cut along the edges. Cooking fires and ovens lined two of the walls, which were darkened by years of smoke.

But the most beautiful part was the racks upon racks of copper pots, pans and kettles. The flash of steel utensils and knives, all of the highest quality available.

The noise was overwhelming. Conversation, shouting, chopping. Somewhere something was frying, a cart, pushed by a kid about Gerv’s age rattled through the center of the room, loaded with flour barrels.

I paused at service door I had entered, taking it all in.

Ms. Whelbrat was where I'd first seen her, giving directions to the butchers.

"I'll want the haunches into the smoke house," she told them, "but make sure the chef has the hocks, he'll braise them for dinner tonight."

The men nodded, not bothering to stop in their work. Ms. Whelbrat caught sight of me though, so she left off bossing them around and came toward me instead. I don't think I imagined the men's cumulative relief.

“Right,” she muttered, more to herself than to me, “let’s get you set up, we need all the hands we can get. Their lordships are entertaining tonight.”

I pushed away the wave of excitement. The lords were entertaining, but I was not a chef, or even a cook, so it would mean nothing for me. No exciting new ingredients or expensive spices.

No, all it would mean for me was extra dishes.

Ms. Whelbrat stormed the kitchen like a general on a battlefield. Her subjects not daring to look up at her as we passed, their focus solely on their tasks.

The excitement that had tempted them to the courtyard earlier forgotten.

A young blond man, only slightly older than myself worked at a lightly floured wooden table, pushing and pulling small fist fulls of dough into perfect ovals. I watched as he pinched the center and twisted, then with a long, slender knife scored the loaf with even slits.

Across from him a short woman stood on a wooden stool, vigorously whisking something in a heavy pot over a hint of flame.

I caught a hint of cinnamon and wine, with just a hint of underlaying clove. A cameline. I paused, drawing in a deep breath. The scent bouquet was a little dull, especially when mixed with the yeasty warmth of the rising bread. It needed something. Lemon juice, or an infused vinegar, most likely. I wondered if she knew that deeply toasted bread crumbs would add a nutty quality to the sauce, elevating it past what many had come used to.

As if she’d heard my inner thoughts the woman turned, her deep set eyes lined with khol narrowed my direction. Her lips thinned.

“Erin, the saucer,” Mrs. Whelbrat waved a hand in passing, noting my attention. “Whatever you’re thinking I’d keep it to yourself. She may be short but her tongue is sharper than a fillet knife.”

We came around the butcher’s table, the pig all but broken down into various cuts, until we reached a plumper woman, skin like porcelain. Hair the color of burnt autumn leaves and dark hazel eyes. She was older than Erin, but younger than Ms. Whelbrat by a fair stretch. Gorgeous, like the others.

“Ms. Tander is kitchen deputy,” Ms. Whelbrat tilted her head in introduction. “She runs the day to day operation, when I am unable to attend. You have a problem you bring it to her.” She glanced at me. “Don’t have too many problems, mind, or you’ll find yourself unemployed. We’ve no patience for bellyaching.”

“This the one sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong already?” Ms. Tander frowned at me.

Ms. Whelbrat nodded. “Caught the attention of the young lady and master Terran. She’ll lose it too. Quickly, if she knows what’s good for her.” Without preamble she turned on her heel and left me with the kitchen deputy.

Ms. Tander studied me like a rare new ingredient she’d like to break down on a cutting board. Nothing in her gaze indicated knowledge or concern over my training. I withheld an internal sigh and tried to appear competent and eager to work.

Ms. Tander, eventually, gave a sharp nod, pointing toward a u-shaped work space with wooden stoves on every side. Large enough for three people to work side by side, but at the moment only one was moving methodically between stations.

“Thomas, but you will call him Cook. He is our head chef, and will assign your duties. You will do as he asks without question.”

“Yes ma’am,” I spoke for the first time since entering the kitchen.

There was a breath of silence.

“Well?” Ms. Tander rolled her eyes, impatience dripping off of her already. “Get going then, you can meet the rest of the staff as you work.”

She turned away from me at that, bearing down on some poor boy hauling water.

Well, believe it or not, it wasn’t the worst introduction to a kitchen I’d had.

Cook was a stout man, but not fat, with a broad back and well muscled arms. From behind I could only see that his deep brown hair had begun to pepper with gray. I approached him cautiously, his concentration on one of the pots just coming down from a boil.

“Pardon, Cook?” I announced my presence. “I am the new kitchen maid, I was told you will have duties for me?”

At first he didn’t turn, didn’t give any indication that he heard me, and I hesitated on the conundrum of whether to try again and risk being annoying or wait and risk being ignored.

“The braising pan needs scrubbed,” he glanced over his shoulder at me. Saying he was a handsome man was an understatement. He had the well sculpted face of an aristocrat, or, at least what the general public believed an aristocrat should have. Sharp cheekbones, and a square jaw free of even a hint of stubble. His eyes were nearly black, accented by strongly angled brows. A hint of foreign features in the proud arch of his nose. Even at his age he would have no trouble attracting all the female attention he wanted.

His lip lifted in a haughty sneer, ruining the effect.

“Then onions. There is no shortage of vegetables to peel. Slop goes to the pigs.”

Right. As I thought. Twenty-one years of busting ass, to peel vegetables and slop pigs.

A less desperate person might have protested. Might have fought the assignment, insisted on a task that actually involved cooking.

I was not that person. And despite my unhappiness with my placement in Vandaven, I couldn’t afford to screw it up. A black mark from a dragon house would kill my career before it had a chance to stutter to life.

“Yes chef,” I gave him a small bow, moving myself to the wash station. There were women over there, scullery maids. They would be more likely to point me to the equipment that needed cleansing and vegetables that needed peeling.

I have never been more delighted in my life to be proven right.

A young, willowy girl that looked about fifteen but had to have been at least twenty lit up as I approached. Her brown hair was pulled back and capped, blue eyes alight with pleasure.

“The new girl!” she exclaimed, grinning broadly, grasping both of my hands in her wet soapy ones. “It’s been so boring since Addel left. I’m so glad you’re here. My name is Pella, and this is Brin, she gestured to the second woman, the one who’d snarled at me earlier. Brin refused to look impressed, or look at all, and continued scrubbing a heavy pan that gleamed copper. My gaze caught on it, suddenly oblivious to everything else. The craftsmanship itself was more impressive than I’d ever seen. Was the bottom as heavy as it looked? Reinforced?

My fingers twitched.

Such a beautiful pan.

“Did you really meet Lady Aveline and Lord Terran?” Pella was babbling “I can’t believe they were here, in the courtyard. I’ve been here for six months and still haven’t even caught sight of any of the family.”

“And so you shouldn’t,” Brin snapped. “Servants are not to be seen, and they definitely should not to draw attention to themselves.”

That was definitely a strike against me, though Brin did not look up.

Pella rolled her eyes.

“Forget her,” she said without bothering to lower her voice, “Brin’s had a stick up her ass since winter solstice and no one knows why.”

“Pella, you are lucky I’m not on knives,” Brin growled slamming her hands down in the water and glaring at us.

Pella laughed, as if she particularity enjoyed Brin’s fury. I glanced between them, not entirely sure Pella had a sense of self preservation. After a moment she glanced across the kitchen to where Ms. Tander stood, watching us, lips pinched into a tight line.

“We’d best not stand around any longer, it’ll draw attention. Come, what does Cook have you on? We’ll get you started.”

***

I fell into my bed at the end of the day.

They were trying to kill me, that was the only explanation.

From the moment I’d entered the kitchen until it finally shut down I’d barely stopped to breathe, let alone rest or eat. Scrubbing, peeling vegetables, more scrubbing, hauling waters, slopping pigs, and, finally, more scrubbing. Cook had accounted for every moment of my day and by the time the evening servant meal was ready, a cabbage and barley stew with warm baked bread to scoop it up, I was too worn out to eat.

Everything ached. I clenched my fingers together and flinched at the raw burning of my skin.

The kitchen had been hot and sweaty during the day, even with the ventilation. I should wash, but the idea of hauling water to the cracked wash basin on my side table…

I blinked. Because there was more than just the basin on my side table.

I rose, my exhaustion lifted, my aches temporarily forgotten, and approach it, cautiously.

A knife.

A kitchen knife, to be exact. One of the many, practically identical ones that I’d been scrubbing all day.

It hadn’t been there before, not when I had unpacked, and I hadn’t been back in the hours since. So how had it gotten there?

“Looks like you’ve made friends,” said a voice from under my bed.