Tudor Pavanne: Viscountess

It all started with the forks.

The one aspect (OK, not the ONE aspect, but one of the main ones) of life in sixteenth-century England that Belle had just never gotten used to was eating with her fingers.

Spoons, they had – at least for soups.

Knives, they also had – everyone carried one constantly at their waist, in fact, for just such use. Even she had gotten accustomed to doing so.

But forks? Aside from a few large serving forks, none were found on any table. Everyone was expected to pick up large pieces of meat or what-have-you with their fingers and hack at it with the knife – or teeth, even – to get it into bite-sized pieces, and then transfer it to their mouth with those same fingers. And everything else not liquid enough for a spoon was likewise chased around the plate with greasy digits.

Thank goodness they DID have soap. Even though John (and others) thought Belle overdid it a bit with her passion for washing her hands before and even after every meal, they couldn't dissuade her, and she was able over time to at least get him to wash his own hands, too – most of the time – grumbling cheerfully the whole time and making a show of indulging his pregnant wife.

And then, the day he gave her that rambling tour of the estate and nearby village, and they wound up in the public inn for noon dinner, one of the places they visited was the local ironmonger's workshop. A cut above the usual blacksmith, the old man prided himself on his fine workmanship with small, fiddly bits. A gleam came into Belle's eyes, and she pulled him aside for a low-voiced consultation while John was talking with the apprentice at the forge. The ironmonger was surprised at her request, but then shrugged. A couple of shillings for satisfying the foolish whims of the local nobility was just part of life – and the Pendletons always had a reputation for fair dealing.

Two days later, the dining table at Mauvais Loup was graced by a new addition at every place setting, looking distinctly out of place beside the silver spoon – but Belle privately vowed to fix that as soon as she found a willing silversmith.

"What is this?" John asked, exasperated, picking up the fork by his plate and holding it up to Belle.

"It's a fork," she replied, exaggeratedly matter-of-fact. "You use it to eat with." She picked up her own knife and fork and began demonstrating her proficiency with the pair of implements.

"I know what it is," came his testy rejoinder. "What's it doing by my plate?"

"So you don't have to touch your food with your fingers. It's much cleaner and more pleasant this way."

John opened his mouth again to protest, but was interrupted by Catherine speaking from the far end of the table.

"Fray Diego claims that using forks offends God, by putting base metal between a person and their god-given sustenance. He says it is a form of arrogance." With both her hosts silently watching, she then calmly picked up the fork beside her plate and speared a small piece of food, brought it to her mouth, chewed and swallowed it before looking up at Belle. "I never did like grease on my fingers," she admitted, her eyes twinkling.

This was the first time Belle had ever witnessed the Queen acting in defiance of her autocratic confessor, even in such a tiny little way, even with him far away in London, but she knew better than to say anything about it. So she settled for returning the twinkle before turning her gaze back to John, eyebrows arched in challenge.

He sighed quietly, knowing he was beaten, and began to eat. With the fork.

^..^

Why stop with forks? What's the use of being mistress of the household if you can't arrange things to your satisfaction? (Besides, Catherine herself had told Belle to take charge!)

A couple of days later, after Belle had exchanged some quiet words with the cook, John was again startled – and more than a little outraged – to spy a small pile of cooked beets on his plate. He opened his mouth to protest again, but this time Belle beat him to the punch.

"They're called vegetables, my Lord." But then she dropped the impish attitude and turned earnest. "John, it's not healthy to eat nothing but meat and bread for every meal. You need to eat a little of everything, including fruit and vegetables. I've ordered the cook to begin including more."

John was furious. "This is peasant food," was his flat reply.

Her temper suddenly flared to match. This was the first time he'd ever shown such an aristocratic attitude. "Yes, and they're all so sickly, aren't they?" she asked sarcastically.

"The King is the picture of health, and there is naught but meat on his plate!"

"And in twenty years, he'll be so fat and riddled with gout that he can't even walk!" She'd never had time to read the entire book that she'd smuggled back beyond the first few chapters before burning it, but she'd glanced through it, and that picture of the future Henry had stuck in her head.

John stared, eyes goggling – and then suddenly threw his head back in laughter. "A fine argument, Madame, that requires twenty years for the proving!" he jeered good-naturedly.

She couldn't help but smile ruefully back. "And do you really want to wait twenty years, and perhaps be in a shape to match?"

He rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, Catherine once again sailed in to back up her friend. "I remember the meals I had as a child in Spain," she said a bit wistfully to no one in particular. "We always had many fine fruits and vegetables along with our meat. I have missed them." As before, she speared a beet slice with her fork and began eating it, gazing at the elaborate salt cellar on the table with a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

John's eyes slowly traveled back to Belle's, his face a study in unwilling resignation. Sighing heavily once again, he picked up his fork and copied Catherine with a trepidatious, exploratory nibble of beet; looking for all the world, Belle thought, like a small boy forced to eat his peas on pain of losing his pudding. Smothering a smirk as best she could with her goblet of ale, she resolved to make it up to him somehow.

Now if only they'd brought back the potato from America already...

^..^

That very afternoon, fresh from her latest triumph at the dinner table, Belle made the mistake of attempting to get from one side of the house to the other via the rear hallway. Immediately gagging and coughing from the miasma emanating from the unspeakably filthy rushes covering the floor, she staggered back out of the hall and leaned against the wall, hand to her mouth, trying not to lose her lunch.

"My lady! Are you all right?" In a piece of perfect timing, the housekeeper Burke was there at her side, concerned.

When she had caught her breath (and was sure her stomach wasn't going to rebel), Belle pushed off the wall, furious. "That's it!" she seethed. "No more!" She pointed an imperious finger towards the offending hall. "Get those rushes picked up and disposed of, then scrub the floor till it shines. And do NOT replace the rushes! I want them out – out of the whole house!"

A couple of other servants had poked their heads around corners, attracted by the sound of her voice – and then John appeared at the door, as well. She whirled and faced him, hands on her hips. "This house has a working garderobe, and from now on, everyone will use it, or a chamber pot – or go outside. NO ONE will relieve themselves in this hall or any other, on any floor. No rushes anywhere! I will NOT abide this stench in my own home, ever again!" The garderobe, a primitive privy stuck on the side of the house, was still awful compared to the plumbing of a later century, but better than these bloody rushes.

"Belle..." he began placatingly, but she cut him off in fury.

"Go smell that stench!"

He stepped to the door, took a whiff, and flinched back, coughing a little, but still trying to minimize things. "OK, it's a little ripe, but that's why we change the rushes."

"No, John, we are NOT going to change the rushes! They're gone! Use the garderobe, a pot, or go outside!" Thinking of it, she spun back to the housekeeper. "And the pots are to be emptied – in the garderobe or outside – at least twice a day!"

John took another breath to argue, but she whirled back on him, crossed her arms over her chest, and fixed him with a positively ferocious stare. She hadn't realized it, but come to think of it, he was probably one of the worst offenders in the back hall.

Still, there was a limit, even for him. "And what are we to have on these cold stone floors, Madame, if not rushes? I think you'll soon lament their absence when your feet begin to freeze."

"Carpets," was her clipped reply. He started to react, but she cut him off with a quiet addendum: "Like Henry." The King had only just begun his newfangled style of putting Persian rugs rather than rushes on the floors of his private apartments (and hadn't had a chance to impose them on his flying visit to Mauvais Loup), but she'd seen them – and knew John had, as well, as they'd talked about it more than once.

His eyes flickered, and she knew the last thing he wanted was to be seen as a mere toadying copycat, but he was also smart, and knew a lost battle when he saw it. Plus, he had liked the carpets himself, remarking on their beauty and comfort. But, "Of which we have none fit for floors, and I cannot obtain any at a moment's notice." There were only a few thin tapestries hanging here and there in the house.

Belle closed her eyes a moment, beating down her anger. "All right," she replied, trying to come to compromise. "But can we get new, fresh rushes throughout the house, today, and keep them fresh – keep changing them at least weekly, and I mean all of them, right down to the floor – until we can get carpets enough?"

He thought a moment, and then dipped his head, acquiescing. Then she stabbed her finger again at the offending back hall. "But THAT goes, and stays gone! I mean it, John – no more using the hall – or any floor – as a place to piss!"

He cocked an eyebrow at her use of the crude word, but he was used to her acting outrageously as a point. Sighing slightly, he nodded again. "Burke," he said quietly, turning to the housekeeper and nodding curtly. "See to it. Clean the hall - and spread the word, so everyone knows." Then he gave Belle an ironic little bow, adding "Excuse me, Madame," and ostentatiously walked towards the outside door himself.

As she turned the other way, Belle gave herself over to a tight, satisfied smile. I may not be able to kick-start the entire scientific revolution all by myself, but at least my house will be clean and sweet-smelling!