There was great excitement in Kisington; for the King was coming with
his new young bride, and the town was preparing to give them a famous
welcome.
Hugh, the Lord Mayor, was at his wits' end with all that must be done.
As he sat in the Town Hall holding his aching head, while a mob of
decorators and artists and musicians, costumers, jewelers, and florists
clamored about him, there came to him a messenger from Cedric, his son.
Cedric was one of the King's favorite friends, and he knew His Majesty's
taste well. So he had sent to the Lord Mayor a hint as to how the King
might best be pleased. Being a man of few words, this is how his message
ran:--
"His Majesty is exceedingly fond of pie."
Long pondered the Lord Mayor over this mysterious message, reading it
backward and forward, upside down and crisscross, and mixed up like an
anagram. But he could make nothing of it except what it
straightforwardly said: that the King was exceedingly fond of pie.
Now, in those days pie meant but one thing--a pasty; that is, meat of
some sort baked in a dish covered with dough. At that time there was no
such thing known as a pie made of fruit or mincemeat. Pie was not even a
dainty. Pie was vulgar, ordinary victuals, and the Lord Mayor was
shocked at his son's even mentioning pie in connection with the King.
"Pie, indeed!" he shuddered. "A pretty dish to set before a King on his
wedding journey! How can pie be introduced into my grand pageant? The
King can get pie anywhere, in any hut or hovel along his way. What has
Kisington to do with pie?"
The Lord Mayor snorted scornfully, and was about to dismiss his son's
hint from his mind, when he had an idea! A Pie! A great, glorified,
poetic, symbolic Pie such as could be carried in procession decorated
with flowers! That was a happy thought. The Lord Mayor dismissed every
one else and sent for all the master cooks of the city.
It was decided to accept Cedric's hint for what it was worth, and make
Pie the feature of the day. There should be a grand pageant of soldiers
and maskers and music. And, following the other guilds, last of all
should come the cooks, with their ideas of Pie presented as attractively
as might be, for the edification of the King. Moreover, the Lord Mayor
said, in dismissing the white-capped company:--
"To whichever of you best pleases His Majesty with the pie, I will give
this reward: a team of white oxen, a hundred sacks of white flour, and a
hundred pieces of white silver."
"Hurrah!" shouted the cooks, waving their white caps. Then away they
hurried to put on their thinking-caps instead and plan for the building
of the King's Pie.
Now, among the cooks of Kisington there were two brothers, Roger and
Rafe. Roger, the elder, had one of the hugest kitchens and shops in
Kisington. But Rafe, the younger, had only a little old house on an acre
of land under a little red-apple tree, with a little red cow who gave a
little rich cream every day. Rafe was very poor, and no richer for
having a brother well-to-do like Roger. For the thrifty cook had little
to do with Rafe, whose ways were not his ways.
Rafe cooked in his little kitchen for the poor folk of the town,
charging small prices such as they could pay. Indeed, often as not he
gave away what he had cooked for himself to some one who seemed
hungrier. This is a poor way to make profit of gold, but an excellent
way to make profit of affection. And Rafe was rich in the love of the
whole town.
Roger was among the cooks whom the Lord Mayor summoned to consult about
the King's Pie. But Rafe knew nothing at all of it, until one afternoon
he was surprised by a visit from his brother, who had not darkened his
door for many a day.
"Well, Brother," said Roger, briefly, "I suppose you are not busy, as I
am. Will you work for me for a day or two? In fact, I need you."
"You need me!" said Rafe, in surprise. "How can that be, Brother?"
"I have a great task at hand," said the master-cook; "a task that needs
extra help. You must come. Your own work can wait well enough, I judge."
Rafe hesitated. "I must cook for my poor people first," he said.
Roger sneered. "Your poor people, indeed! I am cooking for the King!
Will you hesitate now?"
"Cooking for the King!" cried Rafe. "Ah, but he is not so hungry as my
neighbors will be to-morrow without their rabbit-pies."
"Rabbit-pies! It is a pie for the King that I am making!" shouted Roger,
in high dudgeon,--"such a pie as you and your louts never dreamed of.
Now what say you? Will you come?"
"I must do my own small cooking first," said Rafe firmly.
"Very well then," growled Roger. "Cook for your beggars first; but come
to me to-morrow. Every cook in town but you is engaged. I must have your
help."
"I will come," said Rafe simply, and Roger bade him a surly good-bye
without thanks or promises.
The next morning, when his own simple tasks were done, Rafe hied him to
his brother's kitchen, and there he found great doings. Roger was
superintending the preparations for baking an enormous pie. A group of
masons had just finished building the huge oven out of doors, and about
a score of smiths were struggling with the pie-dish, which they had
forged of iron. It was a circular dish six feet across and three feet
deep; and it looked more like a swimming-tank than anything else.
Rafe stared in amazement. "Is that to hold your pie, Brother?" he asked.
"Yes!" growled Roger. "Now get to work with the other men, for the crust
must be baked this morning."
Three assistant cooks in caps and aprons were busy sifting buckets of
flour, measuring out handfuls of salt and butter. Others were practicing
with long rolling-pins made for the occasion, so big that a man had to
roll at each end. On the ground lay a great round piece of tin, six feet
across, pierced full of holes.
"What is that?" whispered Rafe to one of his fellow cooks.
"That is to be the lid of the pie," answered the cook. "See, they are
lifting it onto the dish now. It will have a strong hinge, and it will
be covered with crust."
"And what is to fill this marvelous pie?" asked Rafe, wondering still
more. "Tender capon? Rabbits? Venison? Peacocks? What is suitable for a
King? I do not know."
"Ah, there you show your lack of imagination!" cried the cook. "Master
is a great man. This is a poetic pie. It is to be filled with flowers,
and on the flowers will be sitting ten beautiful little children, pink
and sweet as cherubs, dressed all in wreaths of flowers. And when the
pie reaches the King, the top will be opened, and they will all begin to
sing a song in honor of Their Majesties. Is it not a pretty thought?"
"Well, if the King be not too hungry," said the practical Rafe,
doubtfully.
"Nonsense!" cried the cook testily. "Would you make out our King to be a
cannibal?"
"Nay," said Rafe; "that is why I doubt. However, I am here but to assist
in this colossal plan. Hand me yon bag of salt."
All day long at Roger's kitchen the cooks worked over the King's Pie. At
noon came a band of ten mothers, each with a rosy, smiling baby. They
placed the children in the great shell to see how they would look. Every
one cried: "Charming! Superb! But ah! we must not tell any one, for
Roger has paid us well, and the other cooks must not know how he is to
win the prize to-morrow!"
Weary and unthanked, with his meager day's wage,--a little bag of flour
and a pat of butter, sugar, and a handful of salt,--Rafe went home,
musing sadly. "A team of white oxen; a hundred sacks of white flour; a
hundred pieces of white silver,--what a prize! If only I could earn
these, I should be rich, indeed, and able to help my poor neighbors. But
Roger will win the prize," he thought.
He spread on the table his frugal supper. He had emptied his larder that
morning for a sick woman. He had but a few apples and a bowl of cream.
It was the first food he had eaten that day, for his brother had
forgotten to bid him to his table.
As he was taking a bite from one of the rosy-checked apples, there came
a tap at the door.
"Enter!" cried Rafe hospitably. The hinges creaked, and there tottered
in a little, bent, old woman in a long black cloak, leaning on a staff.
"Good evening, Son," she said, in a cracked voice. "Are you a man of
charity, or will you turn away a poor old soul who has had nothing to
eat for many hours?"
Rafe rose and led her to the table. "Sit down, Mother," he said kindly.
"Sit and share my poor supper: a few apples from my little tree, a sup
of the cream which my good little red cow gives me,--that is all; but
you are welcome."
"Thanks, Son," said the old woman, and without further words she began
to eat. When she had finished she sat for a few moments looking into the
empty bowl. Then she said:--
"Son, why do you not bake a pie for the King?"
"I!" cried Rafe, astonished. "How can I make a pie? You see all I have
in my cupboard. There is nothing but a little bag of flour, a pat of
butter, a handful of sugar and salt."
"It is enough," said the stranger. "Son, I will show you a secret. You
have been kind to me. Now I will tell you that which until this day no
man has known. You shall make the King a pie, indeed!"
"But, Mother," interrupted Rafe, smiling, "you do not know what manner
of pies are being made. There will be many, though I have seen but
one--a giant pie, a glorious pie, all golden crust and flowers and pink
little babies who sing!"
"Humph!" grunted the old woman. "A pie for a pasteboard King. Why not
cook a pie to tempt a hungry man?"
"The King is, indeed, a man," mused Rafe. "But how shall I make a pie
without viands of any sort?" (As I have said, to speak of a pie in those
days meant always a dish of meat or game or poultry.)
"I will tell you," said the old woman. "Have you not a tree of red
apples? Yes, luscious apples of a goodly flavor, for I have tasted
them." She leaned forward, whispering earnestly: "Make your pie of them,
my Son!"
"Apples! A pie of apples!" cried Rafe. "Who ever heard of such a thing!"
(And at this time, indeed, no one had.)
"Nay, you need not laugh so scornfully," said the old crone. "You shall
see! I will help you."
At her command Rafe fetched out the bag of flour, and the butter, salt,
and sugar. Then he went to gather a basket of apples, while the old
woman mended the fire and mixed the dough. Wonderingly he watched her
pare the apples, core and slice them, and cover all with a blanket of
crust laid softly over, but not tucked in at the edges as for an
ordinary pasty. Soon the pie was baked, all flaky and brown. When it
came smoking hot from the oven, the old woman slipped a knife under the
blanket of crust and lifted it aside.
"See," she said, "the apples are steamed and soft. Now I will mash them
with a knife and mix the butter and sugar generously therein. This one
must ever do, Son, last of all. This is the crown of my secret, the only
recipe for a perfect pie."
Rafe watched her curiously, by no means convinced. Then, from a pouch
somewhere concealed in her robe, she drew out a strange round nut, such
as Rafe had never seen before.
"This is the final blessing," she said. "See, I will grate a little of
this magic nut into the pie." Forthwith it was done, and a whiff of
spicy fragrance reached Rafe's nose, and, more than anything, gave him
confidence in this strange new pie.
"It smells worthy," said Rafe hungrily.
Without a word the stranger drew from under a cover a little pie baked
in a tiny tin, an exact copy of the other. "Eat," she said: "eat and
judge if my secret be worth keeping."
Rafe sunk his teeth into the warm, crisp crust and ate eagerly. His eyes
sparkled, but he spoke no word till the last crumb was gone.
"Oh!" he said, "it is a magic pie! Never such have I met before! Never,
in all my life!"
The old woman nodded. "A magic pie," she said. "And still better when
you serve it with the yellow cream of your little red cow."
"It is a pie for a King!" said Rafe. "But shall I be allowed in the
procession, Mother?"
"All the cooks in Kisington who choose may march with that guild," said
the old woman. "Bear your pie proudly in your own hands, wearing your
cap and apron. I will send some one to walk beside you and carry the jug
of cream. She shall be here to-morrow when you milk the little red cow.
Treat her kindly for my sake."
"Mother, how can I ever thank you--" began Rafe. But, with a quickness
which seemed impossible to her years, the old woman had slipped out of
the door and was gone.
The next morning bright and early Rafe went out to milk his cow. And
there beside the cow stood a young maid, the fairest he had ever seen.
"Good morning, Rafe," said the maid, dropping a curtsy. "I am Meg, and I
have come to help you carry the King's Pie." She smiled so sweetly that
Rafe's heart danced a jig. She was dressed in a neat little gown of blue
with a white apron, and had set a dainty cook's cap on her flaxen curls.
And she wore red stockings and shoes, with silver buckles. From under
her apron she drew a little blue jug. "See, I have brought this to hold
the cream," she said, "and it is full of red strawberries for your
breakfast. Milk the little red cow, Rafe, and then we can eat and be
gone as soon as I have skimmed the cream of yesterday."
In a happy daze Rafe did as she bade. Merrily they breakfasted together
on a wheaten loaf and milk and berries which the maid had brought, as if
she knew how hungry Rafe would be. Then Meg skimmed the cream for the
blue jug, and they were ready to start. Rafe, in his white cap and
apron, bore the precious pie, while Meg walked along at his side. A
merry, handsome couple they were.
When they came to the market-place they found a great crowd assembled.
"Ho, Rafe! Rafe!" people shouted to him, for every one knew and loved
him. "Come here! Come with us!"
But Rafe answered: "Nay. I am going to walk in the procession with the
other cooks. I have a pie for the King."
"A pie! A pie!" they cried good-naturedly. "Look at Rafe's pasty! Of
what is it made, Rafe? Grasshoppers or mice?" For they knew how poor he
was. But Rafe only smiled and pushed his way to where the cooks were
gathered. They, too, greeted him with jests. But he insisted that he
must march with them. So they gave him place at the very end of the
line, with the little maid at his side. But when he saw the wonderful
pies all around him, he sighed and shook his head, looking ruefully at
his own simple offering. The little maid, seeing him so look, said:--
"Never mind, Rafe. You are giving your best to the King. No one can do
more than that."
The people waited. The hands of the great clock in the market-place
crept slowly around until they marked noon. Every one began to feel
uneasy, for it was close upon the dinner-hour, and the long procession
had not moved. The King and Queen were late.
At last there sounded the blast of a trumpet, which told that the King
and his bride had arrived, and that the Lord Mayor had led them to their
seats on the balcony in front of the Town Hall. Every one gave a sigh of
relief. But then there was another long wait, while the hands of the
clock crept on--on, and the people watched and craned their necks
eagerly. The Lord Mayor was making his speech, and it was very long.
Finally arose more shouts and huzzas,--not because the speech was good,
but because it was ended. And presently another trumpet gave signal for
the procession to start.
Off they went, through the streets full of cheering, hungry people.
Soldiers and bands of music led the way; then came the maskers and the
flower-maidens, the city guilds and all the arts and crafts. Finally
passed along the yoke of snowy oxen, with ribbons in their ears, drawing
a white wain in which were the bags of flour and silver, the prize to be
given the best pie-maker of Kisington. When the company of white-capped
cooks came within sight of the King, he laughed merrily, rubbing his
hands, and said:--
"Cooks! Now we shall have something worth while, for I am growing
hungry, indeed!"