Breakfast at Blytheholme

When I’m sad I dream the same, strange dream. It begins with a sensation I cannot describe, then a sense of motion, of being touched by a force that hauls at the skin and hair. My ears are battered by sounds and screams, harsh and loud and then muffled as a force comes down and blacks out sight and hearing. I feel pressure on my legs and chest, my body senses uncontrollable motion and a chaos of sight and sound. I am heated almost to scorching, my skin swells in protest. My sense of smell is overburdened by smoke and burned flesh and I cannot cry out or speak: I am newborn.

In nightmares for years afterward I wander on a fiery path among people with bright and burning bodies and I hear their sounds of pain and anguish. What does a baby know or understand of pain and terror? My body recalls what my mind could not then interpret and only seven years later when I was old enough to understand, was I told how I came to Blytheholme.  My name is Ciorsdan Kempis and I am now thirteen years old. My father and mother, my brother and relatives were killed in the conflagration that destroyed Bernet Hall, our besieged home, and gave me a name to remember, Corentin, and a goal in life. I will not tell you what that is yet: you do not know me.

This ancient place made of harsh grey granite surrounding a miraculous architecture is my home and my college. It is my place of learning, of friendship, of hard and painful training and of great happiness. I stretch in my bed under the cold sheets, feeling the light breeze on my face from the open window and the warmth of the morning sun glinting through the mosaic of coloured glass around the panes.  I love the hues of those tiny squares; when I half-shut my eyes, I can almost see them moving as the light and shadows flicker as if a cloud of butterflies with jewelled wings is beating against the glass. I sit up and listen. Someone is coming along the corridor to my room, booted feet thumping heavily on the passage. There is a knock on the door.

“Ciorsdan?”

That is probably Jonet Quaid who has looked after me for the last six years. She taught me to sew (I’m really bad at that), to play the virginals (I love music), and to read and write and reckon accounts. She says her mother told her those are the chiefest skills for achieving a good marriage, especially if you can show you can manage a budget for the household. I am not going to marry and I told her so, but she doesn’t believe me and laughs every time I say it. My stomach starts grumbling as I think about breakfast and I leap naked out of bed to the wash-stand as Jonet enters the bedroom. She began knocking at my door when I turned twelve and my monthly flow began.  She said I was now a woman and deserved more privacy, especially as I had decided to sleep without clothing.

“Good morning, hen, have you slept well?”

Jonet knows about the nightmares and she always worries in case I have ridden the black horse in the night-time and ruined my rest.

“It was a good night, Jonet, I had no dreams at all.”  I’m lying of course, the night-mare came to me right enough but I don’t want my honoured nursemaid to worry about me. I reach for the scented wash cloth and begin scrubbing my face and hands energetically. Jonet watches my profile, I can feel her searching my face for nightmare stains then she gives up and changes the subject.

“Hmm. Have you any tasks today?”

I spit out the mouthwash and pause with my toothbrush held to my lips. “I’ll need the breeches outfit first, Jonet, I’ve a fencing lesson with Drogo after breakfast. Then I’m in lessons with Dr Engelen and Max from half past nine until lunchtime. Should I wear the dark blue with the white collar?”

Jonet purses her lips and considers my wardrobe and its state of cleanliness in her mind. “It’s lately cleaned and pressed. Just take care when you’re in the kitchen, young woman. We had a really hard job to remove the sauce stains from your last cookery lesson.  Can you not wear the apron I gave you?”

She’s right of course, I do make work for her and for the castle’s washerwomen. If my life were more in keeping with the elegant, unproductive leisure enjoyed by my female acquaintances in the county families then I am sure I could keep my clothing out of trouble for days at a time. As it is, Jonet walks to my wardrobe and removes a white silk shirt and soft suede breeches especially tailored for my rounded hips, Max said that my backside view in my breeches is like two kittens fighting in a blanket. He was laughing when he said it. I love that image; it makes me giggle even when the nightmare has taken me to the burning world. He’s my adopted brother and best friend and the Master’s young nephew once removed, as he’s the son of the Master’s cousin John Malcannon, the Master’s factor and estate manager. He shares my lessons and some of my sports. I pull my silk stockings from a drawer, slipping them onto my legs and securing them with the braided garters. I pull the breeches over the warm, long-sleeved silk shirt and fasten the buttons and the modesty panel Jonet insisted the tailor included in their design as she disapproves of my wearing breeches at all. Jonet hands me the hip-length, leather-trimmed, woollen jerkin I wear to practice. I usually take it off when I get heated through effort but it is good to have its warmth when walking the castle’s chilly passage-ways. The last item of clothing I draw on is my low-heeled boots made of soft, russet Spanish leather although I will take them off when practicing the sword-play later. Jonet takes a brush and comb from my dressing table and delves in her pocket for some pins.

“I used to despair of ever bringing your hair into order, Ciorsdan, you’ve so much of it, and with that natural bounce and frizz –“

“Curl” I interject.

“All right, curl then, it was a struggle to contain it. But now, I must say there is a big improvement. You brush it nightly with the oil I bought for you?”

“When I remember, yes,” I say, not wanting to lie twice in one morning to one who is so important to me. She smiles and pats my hair into place. “I’m glad you listened. Keep it up. Here, a braid and some pins and there we are, a real picture you make, even in those boy’s clothes.”

Jonet has braided and pinned my hair close to my head. It does suit me, this style. I look approvingly at my reflection; I’m tidy enough and ready for action. I am not conventionally beautiful, in fact I am unconventional in all things but I like my appearance today although it won’t matter to Drogo how I look, only how I perform the moves with the blade.  Jonet gives me a final pat and a look-over.

“Now, down you go for breakfast and I’ll put these things in order.”

“Have you breakfasted?”

“You know what time I rise, of course I have. I was up at five this morning, Miss, while you were still sleeping.”

I smile at her, wanting to make her laugh. “Would this early bird behaviour have anything to do with the return of Malcolm and Henning, my Jonet?”

She has the grace to blush; she has always had a soft spot for the tall, grave Swedish soldier Henning and she likes Malcolm’s easy, teasing manner too. “Go away with you, you’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one day, young lady.” Jonet pushes me to the door but gently, and hands me my soft leather shoulder purse. It was a gift from Henning on my twelfth birthday. He said that all his colleagues carry them in battle. Malcolm said no-one would make him carry a lady’s purse no matter how fashionable it was. They’re constantly bickering, those two, it’s really amusing to be in their company and I skip down the passage way quite ready to begin my day. 

My rooms are on the third floor of the castle, as I have a small suite given to me by Bethan and Richard, the Mistress and Master of Blytheholme, when I turned twelve. I have four great pillars in the main room, each painted with scenes from ancient legends of kings and heroes which are a delight when the flickering fire in the great carved fireplace sends yellow and orange flags across their surfaces. Then it looks as though the multi-coloured figures come to life and act out their dramas.  My rooms are south-facing and instead of the narrow, slit apertures that pass for windows in other regions of this great building, I have three floor-to-ceiling, clear-paned casements framed in stone and shaped like archways. Each glass pane is lined with a mosaic pattern of coloured glass through which I can see views of the formal gardens, meadows, mountains and moorland that surround Blytheholme. If I were lazy I could spend all day just gazing out at that marvellous sweep of countryside, its cloud-haunted hills and the ever-changing, shifting skies.  I am lucky beyond imagining and I owe it to Richard and Bethan’s generosity to an orphan of war.  One of my aims in life is to make them proud of me. The other, well, you don’t yet know me well enough.

The sunlight and shadows dance across the flagstones as I cross to the turret and descend the dim, winding stair to the underground commissary. I can hear a voice raised in song as I walk through the pillared passage to the mess hall.

“Said Malcolm and Henning those brave Brigadiers,

I think we shall soon knock the town ‘bout their ears;

And when we have done with the mortars and guns,

If you please, madam Abbess, — a word with your Nuns:

Each soldier shall enter the Convent in buff,

And then, never fear, we will give them Hot Stuff.”

Then a familiar voice snaps a stern comment. It is Henning’s voice and I stand still for a moment to listen to the inevitable reproof. Henning and Malcolm’s amusing bickering is one of the pleasures of being with the senior officers at Blytheholme. Sometimes if Malcolm feels that Henning is being especially pedantic or overly academic, he will let fly with one of his soldier’s rude camp-fire ballads just to annoy him. Henning is speaking and I can hear chuckling in the background from the breakfasting officers.

“I despair of you, my friend, we are not three hours back at Blytheholme and already you lower the tone. There are ladies present.”

I hear the amused voice of Faith, one of the female officers. “Oh, please, Henning, don’t worry. Our ears are not so delicate. I’ve heard worse.”

Then there is silence as if the room is listening.  I try and step as lightly as I can but still, the familiar warning sounds, “Cave puella”., “Beware the girl”. It used to be “Cave puellula” (little girl) when I was younger. The senior consultants used Latin when I was present if they wished to discuss matters I was not supposed to know about but when I began to study the language with my tutor they had to switch to Greek. Needless to say, I am making headway in that language too.

“Ciorsdan!” 

Hope Pinnock, tall, elegant and muscular, our expert in chemistry and munitions, dressed as always in black wool jacket and skirt and leather-trimmed jerkin, looks up from her plate and beams at me in welcome. Her companion, dark-haired, elfin mining and gunnery mathematician Faith Cordell, tidily arrayed in a light blue walking dress and jacket, pulls out a chair by her side and beckons to me.  Faith and Hope, together with our language expert, French-born Charity, form the core trio of female senior agents recruited by Richard Jonville to carry out training duties and also to undertake the occasional assignment, always suitably escorted by one or other of the male agents of course. It had been my hope for some while that Richard and Bethan would allow me to be trained to enter the field as well, but while I was able to absorb all kinds of arcane military knowledge and skills from the castle’s personnel Bethan had always been against my taking any active future role in the consultancy work. I wave at them both and begin to cross the floor when I am seized around the waist from behind. I push my elbow into the stomach of my assailant as Henning showed me, and stamp on a booted foot, twisting round as the person’s grip lessens.

“Ergh!” Max is winded, and drops his hands to general amusement.

“You’ll have to get up earlier than that to ambush our Ciorsdan, Max” Malcolm comes forward and drops a kiss on my head. Henning rises courteously, pulling out my chair for me and I sit down. Max seats himself next to me and I pat his shoulder companionably. “Morning, Max, better luck next time.” He occasionally challenges my skill at hand to hand combat, just to be sure I can match him, I think.  He grunts and passes me my morning glass of milk. “Here you are Kirstie, we’ll drink to your birthday.”

“I have a birthday?” I am amazed as I am sure my birthday was celebrated not six months since. Malcolm exchanges a grin with Henning and the ladies at the table. “Let’s say this is a special occasion, my lady. This is for you from Henning and myself.”

He rises and comes to me, pulling out a small packet wrapped in silk from the pocket of his jerkin. Henning stays seated, his hands together, the fingers steepled under his chin, his familiar pose. “We hope you will like it, zhar-ptitsa, lady Firebird,” he says, referring to their Russian nickname for my red-tinted hair, taken from a character in a book of Russian folk tales Henning had translated for me when I was little. I pull open the packet and gaze in wonder at the contents. I am looking at a round, pearl-coloured watch face set in a gilded frame, with roman numerals etched in black for the hours, gold hands for hours and minutes and a smaller gold bar that tracks the seconds. What is unusually wonderful about the design is the small window behind the hands. Inside the window is a detailed carving of a tiny birch tree in full leaf, hiding the internal mechanism. It is an entirely lovely pocket watch, an exquisite present.  I am so amazed and pleased I cannot speak.

“Pierre Jacquet-Droz made it,” contributes Malcolm. “He is famous for his automata but this is a different invention. Look.”

He is interrupted by Max. “Since you rose late, Kirstie, we had time to wrap it. Henning and Malcolm only arrived back from Hamburg three hours ago, and they’ve been with the Master for their debriefing.”

Max was right; usually I am in the commissary hall by six thirty but this morning I had been a nightmare victim and found it too exhausting to rise with my usual alacrity.

“I have a chain for you, it will fix to the small hook on the top of the watch.” Max produces his own packet and unwraps it for me, revealing a robust metal chain, a silver-plated offering bought with a young man’s allowance. I am deeply touched, as it must have cost him nearly his month’s money. I regret winding him in the stomach although it was a game and he has succeeded in ambushing me on a number of occasions, so I take it with a smile.

“It’s lovely, Max, and will protect this wonderful watch from being lost.”

Max looks gratified and hides his feelings by rubbing his ear and blinking at me, a habit of his when embarrassed. He then takes the watch from my palm and fixes the silver chain with care to the small hook at the top of the case, pointing to the inside face of the cover as he returns it to me. “See, Henning and Malcolm had it engraved for you.”

I look closely and there are my initials in an elegant italic script: “C. B. K.” for Ciorsdan Bernet Kempis, Bernet being my late grandfather’s name, and the date, 6^th July 1813. Malcolm has been hovering impatiently at Max’s elbow while the chain was being fixed. “It’s nearly eight o’clock, Max. We wanted to show her the best thing about this watch.”

I hold the precious thing on my palm, the small tree facing upwards, and the grandfather clock in the mess hall strikes the hour. As the booming notes sound, the watch trembles on my palm as though there is a tiny heart beating inside it.

“Look closely,” Malcolm draws Max forward and the two men peer at the face of the clock. I see a sudden movement behind the hands and I almost drop the watch in surprise. As the chimes from the grandfather clock continue, the little tree shakes off its summer cloak of green leaves and all at once, is clothed in the russet and dark red tints of autumn. As the notes continue, these leaves also fall and the tree turns white as snow, an ice sculpture which returns to the green and silver tints of spring as the chimes end. It is the most marvellous thing I have ever seen, and it is mine.