Post of the Month

~ June 2008 ~

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Timothy/de Normanville children ~ Written by Rhys & Siiri.  Posted on the HoS Yahoo group January 2007.

They had run up and down the street for a while, poking their heads into all the shops to see what was going on, and then played with a stray flea-bitten dog until it had snapped at them. Then, tired and thirsty, they had come back into their father's courtyard to drink at the well there - and it was while they had lingered there, that the scent of baked bread and spiced pies swirling across to them had put another idea in their heads.

"Let's go and watch the blind cook," Guillot had suggested to Yves. Yves, a year younger than his brother at ten, had been eager to comply. The blind cook fascinated them both. He was much more interesting than their father's previous master-cook.

Guillot and Yves had heard from Manon yesterday the tale of Timothy's fight in the Angel with the thief. Their curiosity had known no bounds and had been fuelled even more the previous evening when Henri, just arrived home from Lincoln, had invited Timothy to partake of the evening meal with the de Normanville family. "Why should he eat with us? - he's but a cook," Guillot had said to Yves in scorn.

Was he? Yves wondered to himself. Aye, a cook - but there was something about the blind man's manner that showed a certain quality. Was it a result of his upbringing at an Abbey - or was it inbred?

The blind cook had arrived promptly at table yester evening, and it had been interesting to watch the reactions of his family, Yves thought. Henri had clapped him on the back and welcomed him as a friend from the past. Their mother Blanche, fat and unattractive and for the most time cloistered in her room with complaints of tortuous headaches had seemed to flush and somehow become softer when Timothy, after having been given her hand in greeting, had raised it to his lips and kissed the knuckles and then had flashed a charming smile in her direction. When they were seating themselves, Manon had slid onto the place on the bench beside Timothy and had grinned up at him even though she knew he couldn't see it. Yves had spotted Manon briefly pat the back of Timothy's hand where it had rested on the table, and had seen the blind man suddenly gave a brief strange half-smile as though he had recognised who had touched him without a word. From across the table Yves had seen Celeste watch Manon's interaction with Timothy with narrowed eyes and almost the hint of jealousy. Yves had wondered upon it. And Aline at five years old, had just stared, goggle eyed, at Timothy.

Guillot and Yves, sitting together opposite the blind man at table, had stared at him too.

"How does he feed himself if he's blind?" Yves had whispered to Guillot under cover of the general chatter and the arrival of the meat and bread platters brought to the table and placed there.

"Maybe he'll stab himself in the mouth or cheek with that dagger," Guillot whispered back. His eyes had lingered on the elegant dagger Timothy had drawn from his belt. It obviously doubled as an eating knife.

So the de Normanville sons had subsided to watch with anticipation, hoping for such an occurrence and that blood would be spilt. But the blind man had wielded his dagger with perfect unconcerned ease, stabbing up pieces of meat and cheese from his platter and conveying them to his mouth without mishap, using it to carve more meat from the joint on the large platter, and peeling an apple, all the time involved in conversation with their parents.

Guillot and Yves had been fascinated as they had watched Timothy's deft fingers lightly feeling over the food on his platter to ascertain where everything was and politely exploring the area of table around him for his goblet to fill from the wine jug. He had poured wine into his goblet without spilling a drop, had not knocked his nor anyone elses goblet over, had not stabbed his cheek when he had conveyed slices of meat to his mouth with the sharp dagger tip. They had found it odd that he did not turn his face down to what was on his platter when examining it with his fingers. Where he had sat, he had faced the glare of the candlelight and had not blinked against its glare and the de Normanville brothers had found that odd, too.

They had watched the man's eyes, mesmerised by them, wondering why he was blind. His eyes had looked perfectly healthy; dark lustrous eyes that spoke of he perhaps not being of English origin, though he spoke as though he came from this area. Yet they had moved without pattern or purpose, sweeping, flicking around in short little disjointed movements, focusing on nothing, usually moving roughly together, though the left eye had kept sliding inwards giving him the appearance of a squint. Every so often he had rolled his eyes or crossed them. Aline had giggled, and their mother had dealt one of her small hands a quick sharp slap of rebuke under the table.

Guillot and Yves had listened to the conversation of the three adults at table, knowing better than to chatter or to interrupt. The blind cook and their father had discussed politics, the price of bread, places in Normandy that the boys had never been to and had only heard of. The blind cook had seemed well-travelled, and they had wondered at it. He had lived in Normandy awhile as a youth before moving on to Navarre, Arragon and Leon with the master he had been in apprenticeship to, serving in various well to do households, before he and his master had ended up in Lisbon serving at the palace of the Princess Mafalda. Yves had seen Manon bursting to ask what a real princess was like - but she had known better than to interrupt the talk of the adults at table.

By the time Timothy had taken his leave at the close of the meal, the candles had burned down, and the de Normanville boys had been sleepy.

"When I last saw him, out in the courtyard with Tuck, he was but twelve years old," the boys had overheard their mother sigh to their father as the light regular clicking of Timothy's slender guiding-stick had faded away down the stone passageway. "He's grown up into a handsome young man and I am amazed at how he can cope with such a trade. 'Tis a pity he is so marred by blindness, for otherwise he would make a good match with some merchant's daughter."

The boys' father had snorted. "Woman, contain your romantic ideas. It's as well he shouldn't marry. The blind, the deaf, the crippled - none should be permitted to marry for the chance of passing their sorrowful afflictions on to any children they may beget. My parents never sought a match for my brother. Who would have taken him?"

Now, as the boys watched from around the door of the kitchens, Timothy took one of the heavy oiled trays of kneaded dough up from the table, balancing its weight across one arm, and crossed the kitchen to the shelf by the ovens with the trays, unguided by his stick which he left propped against the edge of the table.

The boys watched as Timothy followed the length of the worktop that was set along the wall, trailing the fingertips of his free hand lightly along one edge in guidance, to reach the shelf by the ovens, whereupon he felt for a space amongst the other trays set there with bread left to rise, and placed the one he carried there.

"How does he find his way around the kitchens without his stick?" Yves whispered to Guillot as they watched on. "He's stone blind - he should be bumping into things."

Guillot merely shrugged, watching Timothy. His gaze left him and travelled back to the table where Timothy had been working. Several trays of neat mounds of dough were lined there, and to the right of where Timothy had been working the dough, lay his elegant dagger. Guillot's eyes rested covetously upon the chased gilt handle and fine blade.

He nudged Yves and pointed to the dagger.

Yves knew instantly what his brother intended. "You'd never dare!" he whispered.

"What do you wager me?" Guillot countered.

Yves was reluctant to wager, considering past occasions when he had lost to his brother and had had to pay up. "You'll not be able to take it - he will hear you over there," he whispered. "He has ears like a fox. And the kitchen is full of servants - Hal or someone will notice you taking it."

"Not if there is a distraction," Guillot whispered back. "I'll cause the distraction - you take the knife. I dare you, Yves."

Yves bit his lip, not liking to refuse any dare. "How will you cause a distraction?"

Guillot grinned. "Well, he's blind, isn't he? It will be easy."

He tugged at his brother's sleeve and together they sidled into the busy kitchens. As soon as they got inside they parted company, Yves wandering around the edge of the kitchens via the sink, and Guillot taking the other route round the kitchen perimeter, towards Timothy who still lingered by the shelf by long work surface set against the wall, feeling over the rounds of rising dough to check on them. Hal, from where he was sharpening knives in the corner of the kitchen, lifted his head from his work and frowned at Guillot's presence, but Guillot merely grinned and wandered on.

He came to a halt across the kitchens by the end of the long worktable, and there he lingered and interestedly watched the blind cook feeling over the trays of rising dough rounds that lined the shelf. Finally, Timothy picked up one of the trays from the shelf, and laying it across his arm, headed back across the kitchen towards the table where he had been kneading dough.

As Timothy crossed from the end of the work surface to the table, carrying the tray, Guillot suddenly stepped directly in front of him.

Timothy had scarce an instant to register the quick movement of someone darting across his path before he collided full into them. The tray across his arm slipped; he made a grab for it but missed and it clattered to the stone flags with the rounds of dough. Work ceased in the kitchen; the general hubbub faded to silence and he was instantly aware of all attention on him and whoever had collided with him.

Timothy frowned, quickly reached out and found the form of the boy before him and felt over the shape of the head and shoulders and then the face. Close-cropped curls, an angular jaw and sharp chin - good quality clothes of cloth; this was not one of the smaller scullions - this was a child, a boy - one of Henri's sons.

"Guillot de Normanville," Timothy spoke sharply, "get you out of my kitchen!"

Guillot bristled, taken aback yet annoyed by the quick light hand sweeping over his face and head in exploration without so much as a by your leave. "How did you know it was me? - I never said a word!"

"You're the one with curly hair." Timothy agitatedly flapped his right hand out to the side in the direction of the kitchen door. "Now get gone out of my kitchen!"

Guillot glanced across the kitchen to where Yves, unnoticed by any of the busy staff in the clatter of the collision, had carefully taken the dagger up from the table, slid it into his belt and now had crept back to behind the kitchen door. Guillot looked back up into Timothy's face, oblivious as to what had happened, and he grinned at the man in mocking defiance.

"I beg your pardon," Guillot said with humble voice, though keeping his face in a twisted grin, and then he silently pulled a face at Timothy and went cross-eyed at him.

He glanced round at the staring kitchen staff, daring them to speak and tell Timothy of his action, then swept round and left the kitchens.

Timothy, where he stood, the fingers of his right hand now paused on the edge of the table, turned his head uneasily to follow Guillot's footsteps out of the kitchen and frowned to himself in bewilderment, aware that the kitchen staff's chatter had hushed directly after Guillot's apology. He could not understand it.

"What is it?" he asked aloud to the silent kitchen, turning his head to listen to them around him, wanting to pick up any trail of movement that would explain. "What is happening?"

"Nothing, lad," came Hal's gruff answer across the kitchens to his right after an awkward moment.

Timothy frowned to himself again in bewilderment, not entirely believing Hal, then dismissed the incident and bent to feel for the tray and rounds of dough on the stone flags at his feet.

As Yves and Guillot dashed into the courtyard garden, giggling and swinging the door to after them, Manon looked up from where she had been picking calendulas from a tub with Aline. "What are you doing?"

"None of your business." Guillot pulled a face at her. "Go back to Mother's skirts."

Manon bristled. "No I will not. She sent us down here to gather calendula to make a cream for her face. Celeste sits reading to her."

"Yves has got a dagger!" Aline said, running over to her brothers.

Manon's keen eyes recognised the gilt handle flashing in the bright sunshine as Yves brandished the dagger. "That's Timothy's dagger! What are you doing with it?"

"He lent it to us," Guillot said.

Manon placed her hands on her hips. "A likely story! More like you took it."

"Aye," Yves giggled, "took it when he weren't looking."

"Go and give it back to him," Manon commanded.

Guillot laughed. "Why? Be far more fun, watching him try to find it, wouldn't it?"

Manon lunged forwards and made a grab for the dagger in Yves's hand but he dodged her and ran around the courtyard, laughing.

"Don't run with a dagger in your hand, Yves!" Manon said.

Yves circled round the courtyard to skid to a halt beside his brother once more.

"Here, give it me," Guillot said, and even as Yves protested, Guillot snatched the dagger from him.

He dashed through the open archway of the walled courtyard back into the bakery yard and the other three children flooded after him through the archway after him.

"Look at me, I'm a knight! I'm King Richard approaching Jerusalem!" He brandished Timothy's dagger with a flourish, whilst from by the bakery yard well, Giles and two of the other scullions goggled on at this bit of play-acting.

Yves picked up a short curved branch from the woodpile. "I'm your foe, Guillot. I am Saladin, with his sharp and evil scimitar." He swung the branch round at Guillot and whacked him across the side with it.

"Have at you, foul Saracen!" Guillot sprang forward in play and with extended arm, swung the dagger round in an arc at Yves.

The tip of the blade only just missed the side of Yves throat; he froze and paled as he realised how close it had come and stared at Guillot.

Aline screamed. "You'll kill him!"

The scream was heard in the kitchens. The chatter, the bustle suddenly ceased once again. Timothy's hand froze where it had been feeling over the stone flags to find and recover the dropped rounds of dough - then he frowned in realisation that some occurrence outside the kitchen was serious, grabbed his guiding stick and quickly made for the door that led out into the yard, aware that Hal and most of the staff followed.

He ran up the several stone steps that led to the bakery yard and paused in the doorway for a moment. He quickly turned his head from side to side over the space of the yard before him, identifying the presences. He recognised Manon's heavy breathing as though she was shocked, the giggling of the two de Normanville boys, Aline's sobbing. Unable to define what was happening, he tapped his way briskly across the bakery yard to the de Normanville children, aware that the kitchen staff crowded in the doorway behind him, murmuring to themselves.

"What is happening here?" Timothy asked, reaching the de Normanville children. He reached out and found the small shoulder of the weeping Aline just by him.

Aline's small voice continued to sob. "Guillot nearly dispatched Yves unto Heaven!"

"He has your dagger and refuses to give it to me so I may return it," Manon said, glaring across at Guillot, who smirked at her. "He swung it round at Yves in play but near slashed his throat in doing so."

"I did not!" Guillot retaliated.

Timothy felt his forehead furrow, and he swung round to face Guillot's voice. "What in Hekart's name are you doing with my dagger?" he demanded angrily.

"It lay aside on the table in the kitchen," Guillot said sullenly, still obstinately clutching the weapon. "I didn't think you'd mind."

Timothy frowned. "The barefaced cheek of you! You should know very well it was not yours for the taking! Have you never been told not to take things that do not belong to you?"

Guillot remained where he stood, clasping the dagger to him and glared back at Timothy. He saw a spirited, strong-minded man. But he was a blind man, Guillot thought with scorn, looking upon the cook. How could he respect a blind man? Why should he even try?

He found he was itching to pit himself against this older male. Whilst Hal and others from the kitchens came out to watch, whilst his siblings gathered around and gazed on in anticipation, whilst Giles and his fellow scullions stared from across the yard. Guillot felt he had the perfect audience.

"I don't care," he replied defiantly, looking Timothy in the face.

"You will when I catch you - taking others possessions like a low thief!" Timothy lunged forwards and made a grab for him but Guillot quickly sprang backwards out of reach. Timothy flushed angrily as his grab missed and he heard Guillot dodge. "Come here," he made another grab for Guillot, Guillot again dodged and Timothy missed once more.

He thrust out his hand in Guillot's direction. "Give me back my dagger," he commanded.

Guillot scowled. "Why should you have such a fine dagger? You cannot see to appreciate its worth. You are a useless blind man."

Timothy lunged forwards, sharply grabbed Guillot's wrist and held him fast by it. "Pray have some respect in you."

"Cross-eyes," Guillot jeered.

"I'd rather have crossed-eyes than crossed-wits like you," Timothy replied swiftly, wrested his dagger from the struggling fist with easy accomplishment, sheathed the dagger and then gave the boy a swift light cuff around the ears. "Do NOT steal from me again. Do you understand?"

Guillot boiled over, enraged by the cuff and swung one foot to kick Timothy in the shins.

"Cross-eyes," he spat out again with vemon.

Timothy had had enough. He still had Guillot grasped by the wrist; he shot out his other hand and grabbed the boy before he could run away.

A struggling Guillot suddenly found himself swung up and slung upside-down over Timothy's shoulder in one easy action, his head dangling down over Timothy's back.

He tried to furiously kick, but found his legs pinioned by one of Timothy's strong arms so instead he drummed his fists against Timothy's back, shouting in rage, aware from his upside-down glimpses of vision that many were watching on with glee, as Timothy marched across the bakery yard.

Timothy strode across the yard and calmly dumped Guillot in the full water trough by the woodpile. He gave the struggling boy's head a brief shove under the surface of the dirty water, and then took a step back from the splashes and listened to the boy's spluttering and floundering in the trough, not without a little inner amusement. Over by the door of the kitchens he heard a few sniggers from the kitchen staff gathered there.

Humiliated and soaked to the skin, Guillot surfaced, gasping. He sat there in the trough of dirty water and shocked, stared up at Timothy.

"If you do not have respect, then I must teach you some," was all Timothy said evenly. He took his stick once more into his hand and turned and tapped his way back across the yard to the door of the kitchens, unconcernedly wiping his wet free hand down the front of his jerkin.

Open-mouthed and speechless, Guillot watched him go, and then found all eyes had swivelled round to stare at HIM. Giles and the other scullions were laughing from by the well.

"He didn't hurt you, did he?" Yves asked, running up.

Guillot clambered out of the water trough, furiously pushing his hair back from his eyes. "No! I'm just wet!" He shouldered Yves aside and squelched across the bakery yard to disappear into the walled courtyard. Yves and Aline ran after him, both laughing at him.

"Just you wait until my father hears of this, blind man!" came his furious cry back at Timothy as Timothy paused by the door that led down to the kitchens.

"You're in trouble now," Hal's voice said a few yards away on Timothy's right.

Timothy presumed Hal was addressing him Yes, he would be in trouble, he knew it. However, he would deal with that trouble when it came.

He clicked his stick loudly from side to side across the open doorway, making it hit the frame on either side, wanting the cluster of staff around the doorway to notice it and to realise they should move out of his path as he approached. "Go back to work," he said to them.

They melted away out of his path as he descended the stone steps and they returned to their places within the kitchen, still whispering amongst themselves.

Timothy cared not for the whispers. He crossed the kitchen over to the table where he had been kneading the dough, and moving to the end of the table, he crouched and felt over the flags before him for the tray and its contents.

He found the tray and set it on the table, then sat on his heels once more and began to gather up the rounds of dough that lay scattered at his feet, well aware that Manon had followed him into the kitchens and now stood beside him.

"Let me help - one round's gone under the table," said Manon's breathless voice, and he heard her scrabble around over the stone floor in that direction. Within a moment she was back crouched beside him, and her hand nudged his; Timothy felt over her hand and found a misshapen round of dough resting within it.

"Place it back on the tray," he told her softly.

"That bread's wasted now," said Hal's voice as the large presence lumbered over to stand before Timothy as he retrieved the soft mounds of dough from the kitchen flags.

"No," said Timothy, feeling over the cold stone for the last soft warm mound which he knew must be somewhere near to his hand, "not wasted. To waste bread is criminal." His mind went back to Lisbon, to Princess Mafalda's palace, where needy waited hopefully outside the kitchens and bakehouse for stale bread, overipe fruit and vegetable peelings.

"You can't expect customers to pay for bread made from that dough - it now has grit and dirt and pieces of straw in it," Hal insisted. "We can see it, even if you can't."

Timothy found the last mound of dropped dough and straightened up, running his fingers lightly over the misshapen dough rounds that had been lumped back on the tray. "I can feel it well enough. But I wasn't thinking of selling this dough. Put these rounds in the corner of the oven when the others are placed in there, and we'll bake them anyway. They can be given to the poor that beg in the streets."

"And who will give them out?" Hal's voice was disdainful. "It's not my job to. Nor anyone else's."

Timothy registered the disdain and frowned as he felt over the tray and separated the now gritty mounds of dough into separate rounds again on the tray. "Well, if no-one else shows willing, I shall. I am sure I can find a few grateful recipients begging in the gutters if I walk a few streets at day's close of business. But you don't waste food. Not in my kitchen."

Hal gave a grunt, but gave up the argument and moved away. Timothy turned his head and followed the man's movements away across the kitchen to continue the knife-grinding - but not before he heard a few low mutters of dissent from Hal to the women scrubbing in the corner. The words were indistinct, but Timothy understood the tone only too well and knew they concerned him. He was aware he was still the focus of their attention. He lifted his head higher and employed his version of facing down the small group of staff across the kitchens. He could not stare people down with his eyes as he had learned the sighted could do, but he had long since learnt how to level his face in their direction in a way that seemed to silence them.

"Go back to work," Timothy said calmly aloud again to the kitchen, then took up the tray of spoiled dough and turned away to the shelf by the oven once more.

Manon followed Timothy and watched him as he placed the tray at the end of the shelf. He then leaned his hands on the edge of the work counter below the shelf and paused there, his back to the space of the kitchens and all the staff, who had resumed their work amid low casual chatter.

Manon moved to stand beside Timothy and looked at him. He appeared to be deep in thought to himself. He was in profile to her and kept frowning to himself, though whether he was irritated over Hal's response or worried about what her father would have to say to him over his handling of Guillot, she knew not.

She reached out and carefully laid a small hand over his flour dusted knuckles.

Timothy was brought out of his thoughts by the light pressure of her hand over his. He smiled slightly in response and turned his head to face her presence on his left, his attention caught by her touch.

"I'll tell Father that what Guillot did deserved all he got," Manon offered under cover of the general hubbub of the kitchens, leaning forwards to look into Timothy's face to try and read it, encouraged by the fleeting smile that crossed his face at her touch.

"I doubt your father will listen," Timothy said wryly, "Guillot is his much-prized eldest son."

"It's always been like that," said Manon. "Guillot and Yves come before we daughters in our parents view. They always have. But I'll tell Father what I saw and that Guillot stole your dagger from the kitchen. He shouldn't have been in the kitchen in the first place."

She cast a glance behind her at the kitchen. "I should be gone from here, too. Hal is frowning at my presence."

"Thank you for your assistance, Mademoiselle de Normanville," Timothy said politely, loud enough for his words to be caught above the noise of the kitchen.

"It is my pleasure entirely," Manon replied politely in kind. She glanced across the kitchens to see Hal was no longer watching her, then she tugged at Timothy's sleeve to get his attention, stood on tiptoe to get nearer to his ear and she whispered quietly; "Guillot looked so funny sitting there in the water trough, dripping wet."

Timothy twitched a smile, knowing he should not be seen to laugh by anyone in the kitchens over Guillot's punishment. "Did he?" he whispered back.

Manon giggled quietly behind her hand, patted his arm in farewell and scurried out of the kitchens. Timothy listened to her go, and then refocused his hearing on the bustle of the kitchen behind him.

He turned to face the busy kitchen, and leaning back against the work counter, idly listened to the noise and movement around him.

He wondered how much time would pass before Henri called him to the house.