http://www.bbc.co.uk/mediacentre/proginfo/2017/29/the-sweet-makers
The mention of waffles, wafers and elaborate sugar creations holds true for the late Medieval period as well. Sugar then was so rare it was considered a spice.
The heroine of my historical romance novella Amice and the Mercenary is a Mistress of Sugar, versed in the art of complex sugar craft. Here's the opening of my novella, where Amice speaks of her craft:
“I need your help,” Duke Henry said. “I need
your help to guard the king of France.”
Amice said nothing. She and
the duke sat together at her best friend’s wedding, drinking French wine and
watching the other guests dance. Throughout the simple country marriage feast,
Duke Henry had spoken of the great golden beauty of the bride Isabella, of the
good fortune of Stephen, the bridegroom, and of the mild summer weather—all
safe, conventional subjects. His leaning toward her now and speaking of the
guardianship of kings was unexpected. She raised her dark eyebrows.
Duke Henry lowered his voice
still further. “I need someone with a knowledge of plants, medicines and
spices, like yourself, a woman with a knowledge of sugar. The reward for such
an undertaking will be generous, very generous.”
Listening, Amice was in no
haste to commit herself. To a less powerful man than the duke she might have
said, “What is the captured French king to me? Why should I care to watch over
him against an assassin?” Instead, she asked, “You fear an attack against this
mighty hostage? You fear he might sicken or even die and you will be blamed
because he is in your charge?”
“I do,” the duke answered,
frowning over his wine. “This is an angry time, a time of war and trouble.”
And knights and nobles live for such times. Again, Amice remained
silent.
After a sigh, the duke
continued. “There are many who might wish to strike against my royal captive. Perhaps
an angry Englishman, who believes all Frenchmen are the spawn of the devil.”
“Or Charles of Navarre,”
Amice remarked. “He does not lack ambition.”
“True, ‘tis true,” the duke
grunted. “It may even be one of the French King’s subjects, one who does not
wish to pay his ransom.”
“And you believe I can help.
Why? I am no warrior.”
“But you know poisons,” the
duke countered.
“As do your food tasters,”
Amice answered. “Or you could have the king drink from a cup made from the horn
of a unicorn to neutralize the poison.”
“I will do both,” Duke Henry
agreed. “But I need still more.”
“I do not blend in,” Amice
said, interested to see how Duke Henry responded to that truth. Her parents had
been Londoners like herself, but her grandparents were African. She was as dark
as Saint Maurice. Even at home, people stared at her in the street.
“That is all to the good,”
the duke said quickly. “Tall and handsome, striking as you are, you will
attract notice.” He smiled, a look of surprising sweetness. “They will see your
beauty and naught else. You will be stationed close to the serving tables, if
it please you.”
“To watch for a poisoner?
That will be a large undertaking.”
Duke Henry sighed. “I know
it will be difficult, Amice, but if you are willing to pretend to work there,
you would be another pair of eyes. You have expertise my servants do not have.
King Jean—King John in the English way—has a particular liking for almond
dragees and anise in confit at the end of every meal.”
Sweets, spiced and difficult to create. Their taste would mask much, including poison. “I can make those.” And watch perhaps as other sweets are made.
“Stephen told me that was
likely. That you are a superb cook of sweets. Is it true that your mother
trained in Italy and learned all the secrets of sugar?”
“She lived there for a time,
yes.” Amice replied. Isabella has been
bragging on my behalf to Stephen. And what else has Isabella’s new husband told
the duke? “Does the French king not have his own people watching him? His
own food-tasters?”
“Of course. King John has
many tasters. But still it would be embarrassing if they detected poison,
especially in a dish or a confit made solely for the king.”
“I see.” How strange. This king is his captive yet the duke still wishes to be regarded as a perfect
host.
Duke Henry glanced away to
the dancers again. “I trust my own tasters, of course, but not all of them have
your skill and knowledge, especially with spices and sugar.”
Very prettily put, but Amice
realized then that the duke did not entirely trust all those within his
household. She decided to be blunt. “I will not work in the main kitchen.”
Duke Henry flushed to the
roots of his fair hair and looked horrified at the idea. “A young woman such as
yourself amidst those raging fires and sweating, half-naked scullions? Indeed,
I would not ask that of you. No women work in my kitchens. Women do not work in
kitchens. You will be in the still room, with my wife Isabel and her ladies.”
Amice wondered why he felt
it needful to stress this. In great houses, castles and palaces, the cooks were
all men. If I venture anywhere where food
is prepared I shall stand out. But then I do already. “Your wife agrees to
this?”
Now Duke Henry looked
surprised. “Of course.”
“Shall I wear your livery?”
Duke Henry shook his head.
“You are elegant enough already.”
Amice inclined her head at
the compliment, glad to hide her eyes as she thought furiously. If I agree to this and I am mostly in the
still room , does it mean he suspects a woman? Has there already been trouble?
“And for other kinds of assassins?” she prompted.
“King John has Sir Gilles in
his household, a most capable warrior, and Harry Swynford, Gilles’s captain.”
Duke Henry sniffed. “Swynford is your true mercenary. He is English, but he
fights for any side that pays him. Sir Gilles rates him highly.”
Here's another excerpt, where Amice is preparing more sweet treats.
Amice checked on her boiling
water, honey comb and the residues of the hive. She was making mead, boiling
all in a crock and preparing to add rosemary, cloves and ginger to flavor the
drink. She did so, covered the crock and set it aside, ready for the yeasts to
grow and change the water and honey into mead.
The duchess and her ladies
had gone out into the gardens, leaving her alone in the chamber. When they return the duchess will want me to
make wafers, so I should prepare the things I need. These were easy tasks
for her, her bed was comfortable and her meals very fine, so why was she
discontented?
My friend Isabella says I am impatient and Issa is right. But it is so
hard to know that Sir Gilles is here or close and I cannot reach him, be
revenged on him. Perhaps I should pray to my grandfather’s sacred spirits and
sweeten my request with some of this honey. Instead she moved to the store cupboard,
glancing at the brazier to ensure it still burned steadily. She could use the
small oven, but that tended to smoke and she could make more of a show with the
brazier. She set another crock of water
over the brazier, so as not to waste the flame or fuel, and lifted a wafer iron
from the cupboard.
A loud crash then a stricken
cry, followed by “Please, no!” and the unmistakable sounds of a solid fist
pounding flesh, propelled Amice out of the chamber. Stepping across a broken
wine pitcher by the threshold, she found a cowering maid and a squire. The lad,
plump and well-dressed, had clearly been beating the girl for dropping the wine
jug but he was deathly still now, one fist frozen against the door, the other
hovering free in mid-air, and no wonder. A small, slender woman held a knife to
his throat.
Amice recognized the squire
as one of the duke’s by his livery and the woman by her bright golden hair.
“Isabella.”
You can read more about medieval sweets here.
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