The Chronicles of Artie, Girl-King of England Born

Chapter Four; Kay - Woebetide Thee, Lad

If I ever have grandchildren, I'm going to prop them on my knees, look them in their stupid eyes and tell them to never, ever, ever become seneschal. It's been about a year since Artie clapped me on the shoulder with the blasted title, and my days go more or less like this:

I. Wake up before cock-crow. Roll out of bed. Put blanket back on bed. Stumble out. Stumble back in. Put on shirt. Stumble out.

II. Check the ledgers. Do the ledgers again because peasants can't write. Re-check the ledgers.

III. Check on breakfast, especially the quail eggs.

IV. Scream for new quail eggs because they always overcook them.

V. Kick the ladies-in-waiting out and watch Artie have her breakfast, which is pretty much the only time I have alone with her these days. Grumble something about the quail eggs being badly done because they always are. She'll look at me like it's easy, then ask for more quail eggs and a cup of warm milk. Every time.

VI(a). Go down to the kitchen and send a maidservant up with the quail eggs. Repeat Step IV as needed.

VI(b). Send a messenger down to the royal farm for some milk. Make sure it's fresh milk. Send maidservant up with the milk. Scream at her not to spill the milk. Half the time she will, in which case repeat step VI(b).

VII. Spend ten minutes eating breakfast, which is usually a piece of bread and the badly-cooked quail eggs.

VIII. Start preparing for lunch. Check list of which nobles are coming today, and what they don't eat a lot of and what they do eat a lot of and what they don't eat at all. Make sure everyone sticks to it, mostly by screaming. Check spitjacks aren't slacking. Check furnaces aren't too cold. Check meat isn't going bad. At this point the kitchen is blazing hot, and I swear my spit turns to liquid lard.

IX. Serve lunch. This is where things get good. As seneschal, I'm pretty much obligated to stand there during the feast, reminding all the serving-boys of the day's order and particular gimmick. Artie's not quite as rich as the kings of yore yet, so we have to economise. Sometimes we line the dishes with fruit. Other times we put birds into pigs, or pigs into birds. Sometimes we stuff dormice into other dormice. When we run out of ideas we sprinkle salt on the trenchers, turn up the torches and call it Bible Day. Who needs a jester when you have all this food? Not with Sir Kay around, apparently.

X. Watch everyone eat like pigs. If you haven't seen a table of nobles at feeding time, you can praise the Lord because I don't think you'll be able to stomach anything for a while. The knights aren't that bad, seeing as they're fighting men, but the barons are a whole different story. Whenever they're at table the hall turns into a pen of gold porkers, slobbering their way through the meat and wine. They don't even use the trenchers properly, just wipe their mouths and toss the bread. Fortunately, whenever they're expected I make sure the Round Table gets rolled well out the way, so the knights can sit by themselves and I can contain the carnage. Artie just kinda stares at the barons the whole time, taking huge unthinking bites of whatever she has in her hand at the moment. I don't know whether she's fascinated or terrified.

XI. Get the servants to clean up at full gallop. Roll the Round Table back to centre stage. Go outside, get the crowd's attention, have the men remove the large fancy 'NO QUESTS TAKEN FOR NOW' sign and lead everyone to the Great Hall. Eventually they should be able to find their own way in, especially if they're repeat customers, but I don't want some beauteous damsel making her way into my quarters by accident. As nice as that would be, Artie would never let me hear the end of it.

XII. Have lunch, which is usually two trenchers, a few leaves of lettuce, and roughly three slivers of pork. One day, I'm sure, the people will remember the great sacrifices of Sir Kay of the Kitchen, and eat commemorative two-trencher lunches in his honour. And they will be the saddest people in history.

XIII. Watch as Artie listens to the supplicants of the day and despatches her do-gooders. Usually all the damsels beg for Sir Lancelot - actually, everyone begs for Sir Lancelot. There's some up-and-coming knights, like Gawain (son of King Lot of Orkney and some Morgan la Foo or another, also a blonde boot-licking twerp), but it's mostly all Lancie. They say his heart is so pure, it gives him the strength of a hundred men. What a riot. I bet if I bathed twice a week I'd be just as pure as him, and then some. Still, the whole fiasco makes me almost grateful that I'm stuck in Camelot. Almost. I can still taste the grease.

XIV. Up and down and around the whole castle to make sure the maidservants are doing their jobs. Turns out old Maud came back, and good thing too - that cured crone really knows how to work a brush. We've reached a mutual understanding, she and I. I don't scream at her, and in return, she screams at everybody else. Works a treat. By the way, I need to get Merlyn to give me a sainted by-our-Lady floor plan. He built the castle and the whole city, and I'm pretty sure he's also the only one who knows where all the rooms actually are. I've spent more than enough time finding new doors in completely unexpected places. There's only so many girls you can fit through the ceiling.

XV. Back to the kitchen to check on dinner. At this point everyone has more or less given up, including the cooks, so it's usually thick stew with bread and assorted vegetables and whatever meat we managed to save from the nobles, re-carved to look nice. The knights don't complain, and neither does Artie - although part of me is just waiting for all the gauntlets to fly. I'll get them all with bad meat is what I'll do.

XVI. Clean up after everyone. What did you think?

XVII. Have dinner, which I swear gets paltrier every night. I'm just waiting for the day where I can march up to Artie and show her my one crust and two lentils. Then she'll have to do something about it. Still, better the servants have their fill than me. Some of them get four lentils.

XVIII. Finally get back to my room. Throw my greasy clothes at whoever the maidservant happens to be at the moment. Fall on bed with a vengeance and worry myself to sleep.

XIX. Repeat Step I.

I hate this job.