Isambert and the Young King
(an alternative title could read: On the Virtues of Cooks)

AN: First written for dogstar_101 in a LJ community created to celebrate her birthday. There was a cooking theme. Since I have an obsession with this particular king, I made the two come together - and it worked out quite well!

Hope you like it! :)

November, 1226. Paris.

To work in the King’s kitchen, Isambert decided, as he finished the crimping of yet another of the hundreds of fig pastries he had made only this very morn, needed a special kind of resolve. Under normal circumstances, the kitchen was a blisteringly hot, frantic, and a loud place to work. The tock-tock-tock chopping of at least twenty knives on boards at one time meant that one was forced to grasp the concept of paying no heed to the noise of others very early on, lest you lose a finger or spoil the food through distraction.

The great open fire at the far end (placed there lest the kitchen be set ablaze and take the great hall with it) blazed with a merciless heat, the wood crackling and sparking. Upon it, meat roasted on spits, huge pots of stews and soups bubbled, and countless dishes sizzled in pans, browning so as to be pleasant for the king and his guests. In the ovens, fish and bread baked, and you knew every time a door was opened because of the accompanying oaths sworn as the hot air assailed the unfortunates who wanted only to remove the contents within. “By, Jesu, it is like hellfire!”

Added to the cacophonous melee were the voices – all sorts, from the small kitchen boys who darted around and fetched and carried, to the servants asking when to begin service, to the chefs swearing “by god’s bonnet, can I have no peace in this forsaken pit!”, to that above all of Master Gervais, the head cook, who sat on a great chair in the middle of the room – his wanker’s throne – surveying all with the critical and watchful eye of a general while barking orders to his staff.

Staff, yes, but they might as well have been troops, Isambert thought bitterly, as Raymond handed him yet another filled pastry for crimping. The place ran like a military operation. Service was always on time, or else. The king’s food was ensured to be delicious and well-presented, or else. The kitchen would be kept spick and span, or else. Isambert, being only seventeen and not long in the job, had not experienced the “or else” part of the arrangement, but when he had spoken to old Philippe, who had been in charge of presenting the meat since long before he was born, the old man had muttered darkly into his mead and changed the subject. Isambert assumed the “or else” meant something dreadful, so he kept his head down and worked hard.

When he had started out as an apprentice, Isambert had been assigned the task of preparing the vegetables and the salads. Not a prestigious job, especially when it was your turn to dice the onions, which was why it was left to the apprentices. However, as a joke to entertain his fellow apprentices after service only a week before, he had cut an onion into a beautifully detailed, intricate rose as he had watched Jean, the young chef in charge of salads, do day after day. While wafting it around, saying, in a mocking tone, “Oooh, is this great, stinking onion fit for the king’s table, Master Gervais?” to his horror, Master Gervais had appeared behind him, looming out from the shadows and steam like a demon. The man had snatched the onion from Isambert’s hands, had surveyed it coolly, before announcing that from the next day he would be on pastries.

Isambert still couldn’t believe his luck, and because Robert, his immediate superior, had been struck down with the ague, he had been obliged this morning to step in and crimp the less extravagant pastries. Today it was the tourteletes in fryture, the glazed, honey-fig pastries fried in oil. Under normal circumstances, the pressure would have been great (already he and Raymond, his fellow apprentice on pastry, had been snarled at several times by the Great Beast Gervais). Today, however, the pressure was immense – and not just for him, but for everyone.

This was because the young king Louis wanted to see the kitchen.

Isambert had seen the king’s constable striding into the room not a quarter of an hour ago, looking slightly weary as he approached Master Gervais on his silly chair. The kitchen din abated for a moment as everyone strained to hear what was being said while pretending to work diligently. Isambert could only catch a few choice phrases, but the message was clear enough.

“The king wishes to see the kitchen, Gervais.”

“What? Now? B-But why?”

“I know not. The curiosity of youth, perhaps?”

“We are not prepared!”

“Nevertheless, the king is adamant. He will arrive within the hour with the queen mother. Ensure your staff are well-warned.”

When the sergeant had left, the announcement was made by a strangely ashen-faced Master Gervais. Instantly, the kitchen dissolved into a frenzy of industry, as each strove to prove their talents and usefulness to their employer. The young king Louis had been crowned but a week ago and was perhaps too young to accurately judge the relative merits of his chefs, but his mother, Queen Blanche, was another story.

Hence the proliferation of pastries.

And just as Isambert was anxiously wondering whether it would have been wiser to make small fleur-de-lis from the leftover pastry to stick onto the tourteletes in honour of the royal visit, the sergeant who had announced this most unusual of occasions returned. He stood by the door to the kitchen and announced, in a clear voice, “Our Lord, the good king Louis!”

Along with all the others, Isambert fell to his knees, as he was instructed, and fixed his eyes firmly upon the floor. The only sound you could hear was that of the roaring fire. All the pots and frying pans had been taken off the burners. Three older men, sergeants or knights, he could not tell, entered the room, guarding the door. Then a lady in a blue gown swept inside, followed by a smaller pair of feet, shod in shoes of the finest leather. It was the young king.

Isambert fancied he began to feel a little ill. He was certain he had made a mistake in not making pastry fleur-de-lis.

With a rude squawk which made Isambert flinch, a chair was hastily dragged over for the king to sit upon. When he was seated, Isambert heard his voice for the first time. It was young and not yet deepened into manhood, but it possessed a command and confidence only a king could possess. Yet it was also light and strangely kind.

“I wish to see my kitchens, so I shall walk among you and observe what you do, but I should like you to behave as you normally would, as if I were not here.”

Ha, Isambert thought. If we behaved as we normally would, there’d be no service at all, for Queen Blanche’d have us all out on our arses for swearing.

“Now you may rise, and go about your business.”

Immediately, there was a great scuffling as everyone pulled and hauled at each other for balance as they clambered to their feet. Work began once again with a renewed zeal. Raymond had a terrible case of the jitters and he kept overfilling the tourteletes. He was handing Isambert shoddy pastry after shoddy pastry, and it was beginning to get a bit much. Despite his nerves, however, Isambert was determined to do himself proud. He could hear the king across the way asking old Philippe to show him how he managed to put the cooked peacocks back into their feathers. Then he felt Raymond tap him on the shoulder.

“Poor old Philippe,” Raymond whispered. “He looks as though he is about to shit himself out of fright. Look!”

“Idiot!” Isambert hissed. “You are not supposed to look at the king!”

Raymond started to giggle. “I could not help it! Anyway, I was watching Philippe, not the king. Ha, look at his face, the old dolt!”

Isambert risked a quick glance and turned back, smirking. “You might be right, my friend. He’s trembling all over like a leaf. He’ll let loose any minute. A huge, swelling torrent of shit that will rival the Great Flood of Noah. I shall mourn for the loss of all that good roast bird.”

Raymond’s shoulders started shaking with suppressed mirth at his quip, and Isambert frantically tried to shush him, lest he snort with laughter and end with them both being punished.

But Raymond was not yet finished.

“Or we could just tell the king it is a new dish.” Then, adopting a high voice, not unlike that of the young king, Raymond whispered, hanging off Isambert’s shoulder and chortling all the while, “My lords, the sauce on this bird is strange indeed and not to my liking.”

It all began to unravel round about then. It was, quite possibly, as big a disaster as the time the arse fell out the bottom of the big jar Master Gervais had kept the saffron in and they had to scoop it all up along with the straw and the dust and pretend it never happened because it had to be used that afternoon for service. To Isambert, however, it was worse even than that. Much worse.

Unable to restrain himself, he let out a braying guffaw of laughter that rang to the rafters.

Every head turned to look at him, including that of the king. He slapped his hands to his mouth and he stared in horror as the young lord waved a hand at old Philippe in kindly dismissal and began to walk towards him, a curious smile on his young face. It was the first time Isambert was able to get a proper look at him. Clearly still a child, though tall for his age, the king was spare of frame and fair-skinned, with the eyes of a dove and yellow hair cut into the latest fashion. He wore a velvet cap, a fine tunic and a surcoat trimmed in ermine with long hose. It looked quite odd on such a young boy. Too grand, perhaps. Boys of twelve should not be dressed in such a manner, he thought. They should be in dirty tunics and trousers and chasing after hares in the fields and learning their pater noster, not dealing with high politics, rebellion and recalcitrant barons.

Suddenly, Isambert began to feel a mite sorry for the young king.

The king was almost upon him, however, before Isambert remembered himself. Dithering a bit, he eventually mastered himself and bowed, fixing his eyes to the floor.

“My lord,” he murmured.

“It sounds like you are having a merry time, good sir,” the king said in his conspicuously youthful voice. “Tell me, what is your name?”

“Isambert, my lord.”

“Then look at me, please, while you speak to me, Isambert. You need not be afraid.”

Cringing slightly, as though expecting an imminent punishment, Isambert raised his gaze to meet the king’s. The king was smiling, encouraging, and it gave him hope. Isambert managed a nervous smile in return. Raymond was standing behind, shuffling his feet and feigning innocence. Once this was over, Isambert swore he’d give him a good beating at the tavern later on.

“That is better,” the king said, before directing his attention to the pile of diced apples and pointing at them. “Now what are these?”

“Those are apples, my lord.”

“Oh, I see. And what will they be used for?”

“These will be used for apple tart, my lord.”

“Oh, wonderful!” the king exclaimed, clapping his hands. “I love apple tart. And what is this?”

“That is a raisin, my lord.”

“Yes, I see. Raisins are dried grapes. I learned that in my reading.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“And what is your job here, Isambert? What do you do?”

“I am an apprentice pastry chef, my lord. I used to be on vegetables, but I cut an onion into a pretty shape and Master Gervais recognised my skill and placed me here,” Isambert replied, conveniently leaving out the mocking reference to his majesty.

“And do you prefer to be here?”

“Well…” Isambert hesitated, wondering whether to be tactful or brutally honest. Since he was no good at the former, he settled for the latter. “It is much better than going home at night reeking of onion and cabbage and garlic. My sweetheart, Isabella, favours my new occupation at any rate.”

Isambert, and perhaps the rest of the kitchen, judging by the looks on their faces, were astonished to hear the young king burst out laughing.

“I like you, Isambert,” he said happily, as he swung himself onto a stool and planted his elbows firmly upon the table. “I would stay here a moment and speak with you. Is that alright?”

“F-Fine, my lord,” Isambert stuttered, making a stilted attempt at a bow.

“Excellent! So what are you making here?” he added pointing to the trays of pastries Isambert had slaved over.

“Raymond and I are making the tourteletes in fryture. Raymond fills the cases and I seal them and make the patterns.”

“Oh,” the young king said, picking up a finished pastry in one hand. He studied it closely for a moment before turning to his mother and the small entourage he had brought with him and announcing, “I wish to make one.”

The attendants looked askance at one another, unsure. Perhaps they were not used to dealing with the whims of so young a sovereign. There was one, however, who was, and they turned at once to the Queen Mother. She would know what to do.

“My son,” Queen Blanche said with characteristic firmness, stepping forward and laying a hand upon her son’s shoulder in attempt to guide him away, “there is much to be done elsewhere.”

But he would not budge. Meeting his mother’s eyes, the young king said, just as firmly, “I wish to make one, mama.”

Realising her son was resolute, the queen mother waved a hand in weary dismissal and retreated beside the attendants, observing her son with a watchful eye. Having got his way, the young king’s face lit up with a bright smile. Isambert’s stomach began to churn when he said, “Very well. It is done. Now, how shall we begin?”

“Well…” Isambert began, looking down.

The king’s hands were covered with ink spots. He had most likely come from a writing lesson earlier in the day. If he or Raymond had even attempted to cook with hands in such a state, Gervais would’ve given them the bollocking of their lives. He did not phrase it in quite those terms to the king, though.

He said, wringing his hands in his apron, “U-usually we begin by washing our hands, my lord.”

“Then I shall wash my hands,” the king said cheerfully, hopping down from the stool. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea when the crowd parted to let the king through to the big basin of water the chefs used to wash their hands. It would’ve been funny, if Isambert had not been absolutely terrified.

Moments later, the young king returned. He sat himself upon the high stool and looked expectantly at Isambert. No one was even pretending to work anymore. All eyes were upon him, and it made him shiver.

Please, God, give me strength and don’t let me embarrass myself in front of the king…

Taking a deep breath, and feigning confidence he certainly did not possess, Isambert said in a hearty voice, “We begin by taking the figs and chopping them up into as small pieces as possible – so you must take up that knife there, my lord— yes, that very knife— and chop the figs into small squares like this…”

He wasn’t quite sure how he managed it, but eventually, the king had made an acceptable first attempt at a tourtele in fryture. An untidy attempt (some of the filling leaked out in places) but acceptable nonetheless.

“There, my lord,” Isambert said graciously. “Your first tourtele!”

The young king observed his work critically. Then he turned to Isambert and said, “It is not as good as yours.”

“Well I have had much more practice, my lord. I have made a hundred of these same pastries only today. This is your first try, so I would not expect it to be as good.”

The young king nodded. “I suppose that is true. My writing is not nearly so fine as Master Vincent’s, though he never ceases to tell me it should be, and he raps me over the knuckles if I make a mistake.”

Isambert was of the private opinion that that was what you got when you practised such artistic and impractical pursuits, but he nodded and said nothing.

“I think I should like one of these,” the king went on, gazing at the pastry he still held in his hands. “May I have one?”

Once again, the queen mother spoke up. “Louis, my son, lunch will not be long in the coming. You can wait until then, can you not?”

“But mama, I want one.” Again, a flash of obstinacy.

“Do you not recall brother Geoffrey’s lesson on the sin of gluttony?”

The young king hesitated, his head dropping ever so slightly.

“I do…”

“Then you will be content to wait until lunch.”

“Yes, mama. I shall,” he said, quite contrite. Then he turned once again to Isambert, a hopeful look in his eyes. “But may I have this one at table? The one I made with my own hands?”

“I shall see it is set aside specially for you, my lord,” Isambert answered. It wouldn’t be hard, he reasoned. All you would have to look for would be the one with all the filling spilling out everywhere and making a damned mess.

“Thank you, Isambert. I am glad to have you in my service— as I am glad to have all of you in my service.” The king slipped down from the stool and returned to his mother and the attendants. “I wish to leave now. Do I have to dress for table, or may I hear a book before?”

“You must dress, my son. You are king now and you must set an example, though if you are quick and do not fuss when your hair is combed, I will send for someone.”

The young king and his mother began to walk towards the door, and the attendants followed behind. Everyone in the kitchen inclined their heads in obeisance, including Isambert, who could hear every word of the king’s conversation until they were out of sight and the roaring fire drowned out all else.

“Mama, if you send for someone, let it not be Brother Alphonse! He does not read well.”

“What do you mean by that, my son? He reads as well as any other. He is very a clever, and a very good man, just like all the tutors I have acquired for your education.”

“It is not that, mama. He does not do the different voices like Brother Richard. I like the voices.”

“It should be the content that you take heed of, my son. But very well, I shall send for Brother Richard, if he does not have any other pressing matters to attend to…”

Isambert hadn’t realised it, but he had been holding his breath. It rushed out in a great whoosh, and his hand automatically rose to mop his brow. The relief was palpable. Pockets of excited chatter began to ripple throughout the room, and there was a group in particular from stocks and soups who were looking at him. It was no wonder, for the king had shown favour to him. The king had shown favour to him – a fact that was only just beginning to sink in.

Slowly, a silly grin crept across his face. Wait until Isabella heard about this. She would be sweet for a month! Or maybe she wouldn’t even believe him, and would smack him with the handle of the broom for telling tall tales.

He didn’t have much time to revel in his moment of glory, though, for a second later, the Great Beast Gervais’ voice cut through the rabble and he was once again the apprentice pastry boy. Though he was very careful about the young king’s tourtele, and supervised its every move, from the frying pan to the plate.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Notes and an epilogue of sorts:

1) While on Crusasde in Egypt, the city of Damietta was won by the French army in the battle of Mansourah, led by king Louis, who would eventually become known as Saint Louis. Their victory was short lived, however, as the shrewd and practical Turanshah arrived from the east, reviving the Egyptian army. He was particularly clever in exploiting the possibilities offered him by the geography of the Nile, which enabled him to cut off all supplies to Damietta to the Christian camp.

The blockade caused hardship and famine. The lack of fresh food, ans well as the unaccustomed heat and poor sanitation brought on diseases such as scurvy and dysentery. The king himself succumbed to dysentery, which was so severe that he could not stand without support and had to constantly descend from his horse. His brother, Charles d’Anjou tried to convince him to go back to one of the ships, saying that Louis’s painfully slow movement by land held back the whole army and might be the cause of their downfall. Louis then turned wrathfully upon his brother and said, ‘Count of Anjou, if I am a burden upon you, then be rid of me, but I will never desert my people.’

Such determination and self-abnegation were no substitute for health and strength, however. Louis was later captured and taken prisoner.

Louis was eventually removed by his captors to a private house in Mansourah, and, according to the Moslem chronicler, Maqrisi, was taken there loaded with chains. Only one French sergeant, Isambert the Cook, remained with the king because everyone else was sick. Isambert cooked for his king whatever he could get from the sultan’s court, but Louis was still so ill from his dysentery that his teeth chattered and the bones of his back showed through his skin. The king was so weak that Isambert had to carry him to the privy. Despite all these indignities, Louis’s good temper and patience never deserted him. He owed his life to the attention of his loyal sergeant, and the Arab doctors who took care of him and were praised for their great skill.

2) Lord Gervais Desoraines was the chief cook of king Louis IX and accompanied him on his first crusade to Damietta. Upon being knighted and becoming the Chief Cook of France, Louis sent him to make peace between king Tibald II of Champagne, and Count John of Châlons, and his son the Count of Burgundy, who were in dispute over the abbey of Luxeuil.

3) Tourteles in Fryture are a medieval recipe for honey-basted fig pastries. The original recipe reads so: Tourteletes in fryture. Take figus & grynde hem smal; do þerin saffron & powdur fort. Close hem in foyles of dowe, & frye hem in oyle. Claryfye hony & flamme hem þerwyt; ete hem hote or colde.

I'm guessing they're sort of like apple turnovers but with a fig puree inside instead of stewed apples.