The Butcher of Avignon by Cassandra Clark

kitcheners were standing up at the endless task of preparing the food to be served later that day. Some cleaned, some chopped, some scraped, some sliced and yet others grated ingredients onto the board. Utensils flashed. Sharp knives sliced. Wielded with deadly skill.
    No-one spoke. The master of this seething cavern sat on a wooden dais so he could oversee the activities of his minions, while a clerk at his side checked off ingredients and cooking methods on parchment rolls stacked on a lectern.
    One or two overseers seemed to control the work of the more menial staff, the cutters and parers. Others, boys mostly, came in and out with fresh provisions. She watched a puny boy stagger in with a pole swinging with dead geese. Others followed carrying birds from the morning’s shoot, snipe, teal, duck, larks from the nets and many other birds which they threw down in a heap onto the trestles. Someone else hefted a wide reed platter loaded with duck eggs. A hen, still squawking, was dumped on a table, its neck wrung, and almost before it had stopped struggling, its feathers were being plucked by someone else. Fish, wriggling and glistening with life, were brought in from the town ponds. The innards of wild boar slithered over the chopping board.
    On a back wall were ranged the ovens, massive things, large enough to bake the enormous amount of bread that was eaten, their suddenly opened wooden doors blasting heat into the already sweltering kitchen.
    Baskets of vegetables - beans, cabbages, onions, carrots - were carried in by pairs of staggering lads who gripped the looped handles of the baskets and thumped the loads onto the flagstones only to be shouted at by a servant who stepped back and nearly tripped over one.
    Honey was poured in a golden viscid stream from massive stone jars. A mound of almonds were burned on a skillet, a servant pounded more in a pestle and mortar. Dried fruits, dates and raisins were emptied onto a huge set of scales while two scullions lifted the heavy weights to balance them.
    It was quieter next door but not much. A few stolid fellows moved knowledgeably between the wine casks in the semi-darkness while one of the monks followed, a tasting cup in one hand, pointing with the other to the different casks he wanted to taste. A servant opened a spigot and filled up a flagon with a wine that lit up like an arc of rubies as it caught the light from the open door.
    Two men were rolling a barrel of ale into a nearby alcove. Beyond them, steps led down into the cellar where wine was allowed to settle. She watched as a barrel, obviously empty, was brought out and hoisted onto one of the men’s shoulders and taken out.
    She had seen enough.
    Out in the main yard she made her way past the tower where the two miners were imprisoned and turned the corner into another smaller yard. It was where the wagon had disappeared in the thin light before dawn the previous day, when John Fitzjohn, flaunting the arms of Thomas of Woodstock had arrived in such triumph.
    Now a few wagons were lined up, shafts propped on the ground, and further into the yard a stone archway gave onto the stables. A row of horses leaned their heads over the tops of their doors and snuffled for the stable lads’ attentions. If she craned her neck she could see into the yard from where she stood. As she watched, one of the horses was led out under the arch into the wagon yard where it was backed up between the shafts of a cart. The servant she had seen in the ale cellar appeared at a door and wedged an empty barrel against the wall, glanced round, then ducked back inside.
    The brewhouse, she decided, might be inside the palace walls or outside in the town. It would not matter. The brewer might be missing two of his barrels again if the plan hinted at by Athanasius was carried out.
    She considered how she could persuade any of the dray masters to help smuggle two prisoners onto the first stage of their journey back to England, and reluctantly