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Overview
A beautiful, rich and sensuous historical novel, John Saturnall’s Feast tells the story of a young orphan who becomes a kitchen boy at a manor house, and rises through the ranks to become the greatest cook of his generation. It is a story of food, star-crossed lovers, ancient myths, and one boy’s rise from outcast to hero.
Orphaned when his mother dies of starvation, having been cast out of her village as a witch, John is taken in at the kitchens at Buckland Manor, where he quickly rises from kitchen boy to cook, and is known for his uniquely keen palate and natural cooking ability. However, he quickly gets on the wrong side of Lady Lucretia, the aristocratic daughter of the Lord of the Manor. In order to inherit the estate, Lucretia must wed, but her fiancé is an arrogant buffoon. When Lucretia takes on a vow of hunger until her father calls off her engagement to her insipid husband-to-be, it falls to John to try to cook her delicious foods that might tempt her to break her fast.
“Shimmering with wonder, suffused with an intense and infectious appreciation for the gifts of bountiful nature, John Saturnall’s Feast is a banquet for the senses and a treat to anyone who relishes masterful storytelling.” —The Washington Post
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780802193957 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Grove/Atlantic, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 416 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
“An enthralling tale of an orphan kitchen boy turned master of culinary arts, with sumptuous recipes and intoxicatingly gorgeous illustrations.”—Vanity Fair
“Norfolk, the author of ornate period novels, here uses his talent for detail to evoke the life of a cook at a seventeenth-century British manor. . . . Norfolk creates a Manichaean struggle between Christian and pagan traditions, but this is ultimately less rewarding than the completeness of the physical world he describes.”—The New Yorker
“[John Saturnall’s Feast] focuses with more control on a single protagonist’s odyssey without sacrificing the glittering erudition and gorgeous prose of his previous works. . . . The Feast is a lovely metaphor for an inclusive, joyous vision of life’s physical pleasures, manifestations of the splendors of creation meant to be shared by everyone. . . . Shimmering with wonder, suffused with an intense and infections appreciation for the gifts of bountiful nature, John Saturnall’s Feast is a banquet for the senses and a treat to anyone who relishes masterful storytelling.”—Washington Post
“Norfolk delivers a strong tale filled with atmosphere and the odd, telling detail that convinces.”—Huffington Post
“While the omission of Zadie Smith from this year’s Man Booker longlist seems to have raised the most eyebrows, the overlooking of Lawrence Norfolk’s first book in 12 years seems to me the more grievous exclusion. . . . The arcane vocabulary of archaic cooking gives an intangible poetry to the novel.”—The Times (London)
“Lawrence Norfolk, historical novelist extraordinaire, inhabits the 17th century through its food. From the reign of Charles I through civil war, Cromwell's protectorate and on to the restoration, we are treated to both lavish feasting and battlefield foraging, the politics of the high table and the hearthside use of medicinal herbs. . . . Norfolk's ability to fold history in on itself, and to summon deep time, is as dazzling here as it was in his earlier novels: family genealogy becomes a myth of origins. . . . The material is fascinating. . . . Norfolk's imagination is bigger and more abstract than the individual; he conjures so well the bustling bureaucracy of the 17th-century manor house, its systems of rights and obligations, its geographical and social significance. . . . The food writing is sensuous and exact. . . . You put the book down wanting to make it all.”—The Guardian
“A wonderfully arcane novel. . . In the strict new world of Puritan repression, the pleasures of food take on a deliciously illicit flavor.”—Independent
“A lavishly detailed account of a fictional 17th-century British chef, set against the background of Great Britain's Civil War. . . . Norfolk lavishes loving attention on the workings of a 17th-century manor-house kitchen. . . . interested in describing the making of food and the politics of the kitchen, delighting in the historical kitchen jargon. . . . The physical book itself is a work of art, full of beautiful illustrations and recipes (or "receipts") in 17th-century style.”—Minneapolis Star Tribune
“A brilliant, erudite tale of cookery and witchcraft.”קAS Byatt
“Lawrence Norfolk is among the most ambitious and inventive of British writers. . . . Beautifully crafted . . . . The plot has a fairy tale quality. . . . The descriptions of food and cooking are simply wonderful, a delicious mixture of slant rhymes and creamy vowel sounds, peppered with poetic archaisms. . . . Such linguistic playfulness lifts the novel about the usual historical potboiler; I have not read a more purely enjoyable book all year.”—Financial Times
“This is a book that rewards attentive reading with both lush detail and crystalline characterizations.”—Book Riot
“[A] sweeping tale of love and legend. Beautiful imagery and captivating details bring the story to life, while descriptions of culinary treats make one’s mouth water. [A] unique and sensuous blending of history and myth.”—Booklist (starred review)
“Food, history, and romance add layers of flavor to Norfolk’s lush new novel . . . Artfully told . . . Known for intellectual prose and complex plots, Norfolk this time out attempts to interweave time and senses, reality and myth, rewarding steadfast readers with savory recipes and a bittersweet upstairs downstairs love story.”—Publishers Weekly (boxed review)
“[A] Dickensian confection of character and incident that includes love and war . . . Offers much to savor, notably the details of cooking and the central question: how preparing food is different than merely cooking it.”—Kirkus Reviews
“A sumptuous, epicurean romp through the English Civil Wars of the seventeenth century . . . It's a lovingly detailed novel about food and love and warfare. Densely researched and brimming with descriptions of the lordly cuisine of the time . . . John Saturnall's Feast is an ambitious undertaking, as it seeks to be both a very British pastoral fantasy as well as a work of historically accurate social realism.”—Bookslut
“A lyrical tale of historical havoc set in the English Civil War, with cookery as salvation.”—Marie Claire (UK)
"Sumptuous recipes and food descriptions intensify the seductive love story . . . a literary feast."—Library Journal
“There's a mythic quality to Lawrence Norfolk's fourth historical novel. . . . it skillfully entangles folklore and foodlore. . . . Throughout the novel, food is shown to be both a source of sustenance and a thing of ritual; recipes are legacies, the threads connecting generations. . . . Norfolk's writing is at its strongest when he's describing the symbolic significance of certain dishes: spiced wine, delicate curls of spun sugar, slivers of almonds, and the flaking flesh of river fish.”—The Observer (UK)
“Norfolk knows how to make words roll around the mouth. . . . Fantastical architecture and weird botany are a vivid background to the bloody conflict and swooning romance. Norfolk is an expert on obscure sources as well as sauces. His blend of horrid history and oddly credible fantasy deserves to be consumed by the masses.”—Sunday Telegraph
“Mouth-watering and quite beautifully written descriptions. . . . The random violence and lawlessness of the times – England’s own reign of terror – are convincingly drawn and the final chapters become almost unbearably tense.”—Daily Mail
“Norfolk’s accessible, literary prose and his eye for the more curious, gritty period details give lingering depth and subtle spice to the traditional meat of his dish. . . . John Saturnall’s Feast filled me with a rather powerful urge to get out and inhale the rich greens of the English countryside. . . . a sweet and heady rush of reading pleasure.—The Daily Telegraph
“This is a welcome return from one of the deepest historical novelists around. John Saturnall’s Feast is . . . a pleasure piece. Which is probably why it sings. . . . The Civil War is lightly evoked, its confusion and ignominy done well enough that one remembers Norfolk reported from the war in Bosnia. . . . He creates a tantalizing interplay between hunger and imagination.”—London Evening Standard
“John Saturnall’s Feast is a rich mix of myth, superstition, romance and treachery, with elements of a fairytale set against the historical background of the English Civil War. . . . [it] is a remarkable achievement in which Norfolk brings to life the kitchens of the past, and captures the horrors of the Battle of Naseby and the religious zealotry of the era. It is a literary feast.”—Sydney Morning Herald
“Lawrence Norfolk writes strange, ambitious and curiously entertaining literary fiction. . . . [John Saturnall’s Feast] tickles the senses (see the lovely woodcut illustrations) and the imagination.”—South China Morning Post
“On the cusp of an autumn glut, the publication of a novel about a sublime cook in a great house 380 years ago is perfectly timed. At its heart is a love story. . . . The kitchen vocabulary is rich, and Norfolk relishes it. . . . The feast itself is a triumph.”—The Lady
“As complex and full-flavored as a fine wine. . . . Norfolk’s prose gives time and place the cachet of uncertainty, poverty, superstition and political rivalry. . . . The characters, adversaries, fanatics, kings and nobles, village folk and servants color the pages of John Saturnall’s Feast with classic dramas, friendship, romance, jealousies and accomplishments, John generously sharing the bounty of his gifts.”—Curled Up With a Good Book
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
From The Book of John Saturnall, with the Particulars of that famous Cook's most Privy Arts, including the Receipts for his notorious Feast. Printed in the Year of Our Lord, Sixteen Hundred and Eighty-one
How Saturnus created the first Garden and when, this humble Cook does not pretend to know. Nor the Name writ over its Gates, be it Paradise or Eden. But every green Thing grew in that ancient Plantation. Palm Trees gave Dates and Honey flowed from the Hives. Grapes swelled on the Vine and every Creature thrived. There the first Men and Women sat together in Amity and no Man was Master or Slave. At Saturnus's Table did every Adam serve his Eve and in his Garden they did exchange their Affections. For there they kept the Saturnall Feast.
Now Saturnus's Gardens are overgrown. Our brokeback Age has forgotten the Dishes that graced the old God's chestnut-wood Tables. In these new-restored Times, Inkhorn Cooks prate of their Inventions and Alchemical Cooks turn Cod Roes into Peas. My own rude Dishes stumble after such Dainties like the Mule that limps behind the Packhorse Train, braying at his Betters. Yet as one who marched through the late Wars falls exhausted into the succeeding Peace, I set my last Table here.
For this late-born Adam would plant a new Garden in these Pages and serve up Words for Fruits. Here would he offer Receipts for his Dishes, enough to make the old God's Boards groan again. Now let my own Feast begin as that Original did when the first Men and Women did fill their Cups. Let the Saturnall Feast begin with Spiced wine.
To prepare that ancient Hippocras which is vulgarly known as Spiced Wine
From the first Garden's Fruits was this ancient Cup prepared, Dates and Honey and Grapes and more, as I shall tell. In a great Cauldron pour a Quart of White Wine and set it over a low fire until the Wine shivers. Add to it eight Quarts of Virgin Honey, not pressed from the Comb but sieved. If the Decoction boils, settle it with cold Wine. Leave to cool then heat again and skim. This will be done a Second Time and a Third until the King's Face on a Penny Coin may be seen plain on the Bottom.
Shuck the Flesh of Dates and soften them to a Paste with Wine. Roast the Stones before a Fire and give them to the Mixture. Add to it the Sweet Leaf called Folium, Ground Pepper as much as a Woman at Prayer might hold between her Palms and a Pinch of Saffron from the Crocus Flowers. Pour on these just above two Gallons of Wine or until the Liquor's Thickness will bear an Egg that you might see its Shell swimming above to the size of a Hazelnut Shell. Next tie up Cloves and Mace in a Lawn-bag or a Hippocras Sack, as more learned Cooks do term it. Let it steep in the Liquor ...
THE PACKHORSES CREPT DOWN the valley. Swept by waves of fine grey rain, the distant beasts lurched under pack-chests and sacks. At their head, a tall figure leaned into the drizzle as if pulling them away from the dark village above. Standing beside the wooden bridge at the bottom, a long-faced young man peered out from under his hat's dripping brim and grinned.
Water seeped through the seams in Benjamin Martin's boots. Rain soaked his cloak. In the pack at his feet sat the load which he had contracted to deliver to the Manor. He had been on the road for almost a week. This morning the whole Vale had still lain ahead of his blistered feet. Then he had spied the packhorse train.
Ben's grin stretched his face like the yawn of a surly horse. He flexed his aching shoulders.
Behind the driver came a piebald, then a bay, then two dark brown ponies. But Ben's gaze was fixed on the rear. A mule trailed behind the others. A mule that appeared to carry nothing more than a pile of rain-soaked rags. Even an unladen beast had to eat, Ben told himself. The driver would be glad of his business. He glanced up the slope again to the village.
No lights showed among the cottages. No smoke rose from the chimneys. Nothing moved on the slopes that climbed to the dark trees far above. No one knew what had happened, the Flitwick men had said the previous night at the inn. Not a soul had been up to Buckland all winter.
It was none of his business, he told himself. When the packhorses got down he would make his bargain with the driver. The mysterious parcel could share a ride with the wet rags on the mule. It could get to the Manor without him. To this 'Master Scovell', whoever he was. The village, the Vale, the Manor at the far end: all shared the name of Buckland. Like a common curse, Ben thought. His eyes scanned the soot-streaked church then rose to the wood. He nudged the hated pack with his foot.
The beasts passed a row of split-oak palings. The cold rain seeped up his boots to his breeches. Ben's thoughts turned to Soughton and the warm back room at the Dog at Night. Tonight he would be on his way back. Master Fessler would take him, he was sure. He would never set eyes on this place again.
Three long loping strides took the driver down the last steep bank. The piebald mare teetered after, the two pack-chests swaying on her back. Joshua Palewick, they had called the lean grey-haired man at the Flitwick inn. Next came the bay horse, laden the same. The two ponies were loaded with panniers and sacks. Last of all the mule which carried only a bundle of rags and limped. Ben drew himself up. The only thing a packhorse man drove harder than his horses was a bargain, he reminded himself. A penny a mile was fair for a limping mule. The animals splashed through the puddles and mud. He raised a hand in greeting. Then, on the mule's back, the bundle of rags stirred.
A gust of wind, Ben told himself. Or a freak of the failing light. But the next moment showed him it was not so. Out of the rags rose a head. Out of the head stared a pair of eyes. The rags contained a boy.
Sharp cheekbones jutted from his face. His hair was a mat of soaked black curls. A sodden blue coat was draped over the rest of him. Hunched awkwardly over the back of the mule, the young rider slipped and slid as if he were about to fall. But there was no danger of that, Ben saw as the mule drew closer. Thick cords encircled his wrists. The boy was tied to the saddle.
The driver stopped.
'Ben Martin,' Ben said in a casual tone. 'Got a load going to Buckland Manor. For a man by the name of Scovell.'
'I know Richard Scovell,' Joshua Palewick said. His eyes narrowed. 'And I know you. You were at the inn back in Flitwick.'
Ben nodded. Behind the driver, the boy watched from the mule, the rain dripping from his dark eyebrows and into his eyes. Unable to wipe the drops away, he grimaced and blinked. His gaze seemed to look through the two men.
'Put it on with him,' Ben suggested. 'Penny a mile's fair. The road's not so bad ...'
'Ain't it now?' Josh raised an eyebrow. 'S'pose I must've imagined it. These last thirty years.'
Ben forced a grin. 'Penny and a half,' he offered.
Joshua Palewick shook his head. 'The boy gets the ride to himself Agreed it with the priest.'
A sinking feeling grew in Ben's gut. 'I'll pay more,' he blurted out. But Josh's expression hardened.
'Not to me,' the driver said shortly. 'I shook on it.'
He pulled on the rein and the horses set off. The boy's thin body jolted this way and that. Hooves clopped over the bridge as the beasts ambled away.
Ben's spirits tumbled. He would throw the parcel in the stream, he resolved. Say he'd never seen it. No one would know except Palewick. And the boy, whoever he was. And this Scovell, if Palewick told him. And the dark-faced man who had hired him back in Soughton. The Moor or Jew or whatever he was. Almery ...
The Dog's warm back room was disappearing with Josh's horses. He should never have left Soughton. Never have found himself soaked, with blistered feet on a rainswept bridge at the head of the Vale of Buckland. Suddenly Ben snatched up the straps of the pack and slung its bulk over his shoulder.
'Wait!' he shouted through the rain. He stumbled over the planks. Joshua Palewick turned, his face closed.
'I don't know the road,' Ben confessed.
'I figured.'
'I never set foot here before.'
The older man looked Ben over. Then it was as if some baleful influence lifted. As if the dark village with its soot-streaked church were already distant and Buckland Manor were close. As if the length of the Vale were a mere stroll. The ghost of a smile flickered over the driver's face.
'I saw you from up there in the village,' Josh said. 'Thought you was waiting for a ride in one of them Soughton chairs. You from up that way, ain't you?' Ben admitted that he was.
'We'll walk aways if you like,' said the driver. 'See if we can stand each other.'
Ben nodded eagerly then the older man glanced back to the boy. 'That one's going to the Manor, same as that parcel of yours. You keep an eye on him for me. All right?'
Both men looked back. Balanced on the mule, the boy had twisted about. Ben Martin followed his gaze, past the village and up the overgrown slopes, all the way to the dark wall of trees at the top.
'That's where they caught him,' Josh said. 'Buccla's Wood.'
* * *
They were running as hard as they could, out of the hut and across the dark meadow, John's heart thudding in his chest, fear churning his guts. Beside him, his mother's hand gripped the heavy bag in one hand and his wrist in the other, the long grass whipping their legs as they scrambled for the safety of the slopes. Behind them, the mob's chant grew more strident.
Honey from the Hive! Grapes from the Vine!
Come out our Witch! Come drink your Wine!
Oily-smelling tallow-smoke laced the warm night air. The banging of pots and pans mixed with the villagers' shouts. John felt his mother's hand tighten, pulling him along. He heard the bag knock awkwardly against her legs, the breath rasp in her throat. His own heart pounded. Reaching the edge of the meadow they clawed their way up the first bank.
Terraces cut long shallow steps in the slope. They climbed then ran then climbed again. The noise of the mob pursued them in waves, rising and falling. With each step, John's fear abated a little. Soon ghostly banks of furze and scrub rose around them, the night air heavy with grassy scents. John looked up. The trees of Buccla's Wood loomed.
The villagers never came up here. Old Buccla had witched the whole Vale with her Feast, they said. Until Saint Clodock came and chopped up her chestnut-wood tables. Ever since, once a year, they served her a feast in return. To keep her off.
That was tonight.
His mother climbed on, striding confidently through the narrow gaps and breaks. John hurried behind. The bag clutched in her hand held the book she had snatched from the lintel over the fireplace in the moments before their flight. He slipped past the thornyfronds, edging through the thicket. Soon the path narrowed then came to an end, the bramble thickets forming an impenetrable barrier. Before an old wooden paling with a cross carved upon it, his mother halted.
He had never climbed this high before. Beyond the thicket of thorns loomed the trees of Buccla's Wood. He heard the heavy crowns of the chestnuts shifting, the leaves rustling in a thousand dry whispers. Far below, the mob's chant drifted up.
A Pigeon from the Perch and a Blackbird by, Come out, our Witch! Come eat your Pie!
'It's just the Ale,' his mother said. She looked down into his worried face. 'When they've drained the barrel they look for their sport.'
John remembered the other times: red yelling faces, half-drunk men and their barking dogs. Himself clinging to his mother's skirts. She had always faced them down before. But tonight the chant had gained a new harshness.
'They came up from Marpot's house,' he told his mother.
'Did they?'
He stared at her. She knew it as well as he did. They had gathered to pray for little Mary Starling's soul. Then they had marched up to the meadow. Now they surrounded the hut and chanted.
Fish from the Canal! Eels from the Jub! Come out, our Witch ...
Out of the sea of flame-red faces, a black-suited figure climbed onto the thatch. John heard his mother's breath catch in her throat as if her cough were about to return. A burning torch was clutched in the man's hand. He waved it and the crowd roared louder. John saw his mother's hands fly to her mouth.
'No,' she murmured. 'They wouldn't dare.'
Every wave of the torch brought it nearer the thatch. Everything they owned was in the hut, John thought. The straw mattress, the chest, his mother's pots and bottles and jars ... But then a shock of white hair appeared at the edge of the mob. John pulled at his mother's skirt.
'Look, Ma! It's Old Holy.'
Relief flooded through him as the priest strode into the midst of the villagers. From high above, John watched the man's arms wave, his hands cuffing at the nearest heads. The torch-bearer jumped down off the roof. The chanters fell back. The torches began to drift away.
'That'll teach 'em,' John declared.
'Will it?' his mother murmured.
She lowered the bag with the book to the ground. John felt her hand stroke his hair, her fingers untangling the thick black locks. He looked up at the dark line of trees and breathed in slowly, smelling wild garlic, mulched leaves, a fox den somewhere and a sweeter scent. Fruit blossom, he thought. Then that small mystery was eclipsed by a larger one. A stranger scent hid among the blossom, sweet and resinous at once. Lilies, John thought, drawing the scent deeper. Lilies mixed with pitch.
'What're you sniffing at now?' his mother asked with a smile.
He smiled back. He had a demon in his throat, she said. A demon who knew every smell in Creation. Breathing in the sharp saps and sweet blossoms, he felt them anchor themselves within him, their invisible trails fanning out around him. But here was a smell his demon had never met before. He looked up at the trees of Buccla's Wood.
'I don't know,' he confessed at last. His mother swept her long dark hair back from her face.
'Don't tell them you came up here, John. Understand?' He nodded. Of course he understood. Saint Clodock had sworn an oath to God, so the old story went. He had marched out of Zoyland and come up here to chop up the witch's tables. He had taken the fires from her hearths and torn up her gardens. He had taken back the Vale for God.
But Buccla was still up there, the villagers said. Her and her Witch's Feast. And she was still hungry ...
It was just an old story, John believed. The villagers' chanting was just their sport. Then Warden Marpot had come, waving torches and goading them on. Now Father Hole had seen them off. The thought of the old priest cuffing their heads made him grin. Below, the last torch-bearers were trudging away. When none remained, his mother turned to him.
'We'll go to church every week,' she said. 'I'll wear a bonnet like the rest of the women.' She attempted a smile. 'You can play with the other children.'
* * *
John, John, the Witch's Son! Duck him and prick him and make him run!
It was their sport after the Sunday lesson. The moment Old Holy's last 'Amen' sounded, John was out and through the door, scrambling over the wall of Saint Clodock's churchyard then running as fast as his legs would carry him.
John, John, the Blackamoor's Son! Paint his Face and pull out his Tongue
Two summers had passed since the flight up the slope. He was taller and stronger than the child who had scrambled up the terraces to Buccla's Wood. But so were his pursuers.
Ephraim Clough led the pack as usual. Dando Candling and Tobit Drury followed close behind with Abel Starling and Seth Dare. The girls skipped along at the back and shrieked. John sprinted past the old well, over the bare patches of Saint Clod's Tears then around the pond, scattering ducks and setting the Fentons' geese honking. The villagers drawing water glanced up then shook their heads in disapproval. Susan Sandall's boy was causing trouble again.
He sped across the green, arms pumping, heart pounding. As he passed the Chaffinges' orchard, Tom Hob yelled at John's pursuers. But no one listened to Tom. Past the fruit trees, the back lane yawned, a high-hedged tunnel of shade. As John sprinted for the mouth, something cracked against his skull. Hot pain billowed from the back of his head. A missile from Abel, he thought. Buckland's champion stone-thrower.
He stumbled and a cheer rose behind. But a moment later he regained his stride. His feet hammered the ground. His pursuers began to fall back.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "John Saturnall's Feast"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Lawrence Norfolk.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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