Page 10 of Kept 2
Add flour with a slow mix
Finish by hand and set in fridge overnight.
Note: If the eggs are too cold, the mixture will split. If this happens warm the side of the bowl with a blowtorch as you mix. This pastry must be refrigerated before use as it is soft and sticky.
4
“The only Ereston’s I know of are Ereston Mountain in Yorkshire and Ereston Village in Hampshire,” the wearied woman behind the tourist bureau counter intones for the second time.
“You’re absolutely sure?”
“Yes,” she says, looking me in the eye.
I know that if I was in the U.S, I would have received a mouthful by now, but English people are just so polite – even the police are polite, no guns, helpful manners.
‘Pity their vampires are murderous blood-thirsty cunts.’
“I apologise,” I shake my head as much to clear my thoughts as to make my point, “it’s just, I only have a short time in this country, and I want to be sure I am heading to the right place.”
“What will it be then? Mountain or village?”
“Village, please.”
“Alright then, here is the route you will take.”
She hands me a train timetable and draws a thick red whiteboard marker line along several routes; One scenic, one direct, marking the stop-off and interchange points with red crosses. It looked like the first leg, a two-hour train ride to Winchester, was going to be the easiest part, the rest would be by bus and maybe take a few days, depending on how often they ran from small village to small village.
“Thank you,” I smile, trying to mollify her. I’ve taken up more than an hour of her time with my questions, noting as the time wore on, that my accent really annoyed her.
“Have a nice day,” she says, no hint of sarcasm, and I frown and nod, picking up my luggage and walking out into the dull sunshine of an English morning.
I’d checked out of the youth hostel this morning. I’m determined to leave London behind and find the vampire’s manor. I can’t take any more time just reading the journal and hoping for clues. I need to get out of here and keep on the move. But finding the damn place is proving more difficult than I expected. Ereston is not a well-known Estate; even the village is barely a dot on the map.
‘Still,’ I shrug, hailing a cab to take me to the train station,‘dot or major city, it is where I have to go.’
Nestled now in my train seat, one eye fixed on the mud-map the lady at the tourist bureau has drawn for me, one on the bottle of milk I am forcing myself to drink, the second for the day. I flip open the journal.
New Entry
The King asked my advice this morning, as I helped him dress, about the Countess Elsbeth Deauforte, recently widowed for the third time and a renowned court beauty, and I confess I was at a loss as to what to advise him. The lady has, for some time, caused me consternation, and I was unsure how to warn the king away from her influence without seeming as though I was jealous – because nothing could be further from the truth.
“Well, my liege,” I said quietly as I buttoned up his doublet, “she is a powerful woman in court, and a beauty, there is no doubt of that.”
“She is that,” the king laughed.
“She is said to be 25 and recently widowed for the third time,” I added, “as, no doubt, you know. Although it is true, she looks no older than 14.”
“It appears you have caught her eye,” he said, smiling up at me, his eyes twinkling.
“Indeed, your highness,” I nodded, trying not to groan, “but I have left my heart in Ereston, as I have told you on many an occasion.”
“Methinks it is not your heart the woman desires,” the King snorted, slapping me on the back as he farted loudly.
“Why bring this up now then, my liege?” I asked, as though I was not really interested, when actually I was beginning to suspect an ulterior motive, one that only the lady herself was Machiavellian enough to have conceived.
“The lady requests my company in her bedchambers, or had her gentlewomen tell me this is so,” he said, frowning, “I thought you might advise how best to insist invitations such as this wither on the vine. As you know, I am courting a young and virtuous woman at this time, and I do not want more whispers to reach her ears.”
I knew full well, whom he meant. He is ‘courting’ Catherine Howard, a first cousin and former lady in waiting to his late and unfortunate wife Anne Boleyn. I believe he had been ‘courting’ her since she was nine and redoubled his efforts since the death of his late wife, Jane. Catherine is now only 15 and certainly not in line for a royal title – he hopes to win her as a mistress, but as yet is making no headway. Everyone knew that her powerful uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, was the only reason he had not forced himself upon the unfortunate wench to date.
