Her Majesty’s Secret Service

008. First Encounter

All the way to the queen’s chamber, Oliver urged me on. One must not keep the queen waiting, right?

Oliver’s steps quickened. At the same time, the lantern he was carrying flickered, as if it might go out if mishandled.

“Can we go a bit slower, what’s the rush?”

“Her Majesty is waiting, and you say such things?!”

Oliver hadn’t been like this before, but suddenly he became an ardent follower of the Queen.

Shortly after, Oliver, who had arrived in front of the Queen’s chamber, began to catch his breath. It was understandable, given the haste.

While Oliver was catching his breath, he was momentarily lost in thought.

Why on earth had he been summoned? Could it really be that a hair was found in his dish? If so, would this be the end for him?

Such ominous thoughts briefly crossed his mind, but he quickly shook his head, dismissing them. After all, if it were such a matter, soldiers would have come, not the servant Oliver.

“Now, tell me. What’s going on?”

Given the place, I whispered to Oliver, who was gasping for breath at the door. Fortunately, it seemed my voice reached Oliver’s ears.

Hearing my question, Oliver also responded in a whisper.

“It seems Her Majesty liked the dish Logan made. It’s the first time something like this has happened, so I was surprised too. Ah, when Her Majesty speaks to you, make sure to use the proper honorifics. Say ‘Your Majesty.’ Understand?”

After answering my question, Oliver recited the points to be careful about in front of the Queen. Then, clearing his throat, he knocked on the firmly closed door.

“Your Majesty, as commanded, I have brought the chef.”

“Come in.”

Not long after Oliver’s voice was heard, a gentle voice came from inside the room.

Hearing that voice, Oliver carefully opened the door and entered, and I followed behind him.

As soon as we entered the room, the first thing that caught my eye was the figure of a woman, presumed to be Queen Mary, and Bishop Steve facing her.

Who else but the Queen would be facing the Bishop in the Queen’s chamber?

“So, you are Logan who made this dish?”

Indeed, it was the Queen. Her voice was softer than one would expect from the infamous ‘Bloody Mary.’

“Yes, that is correct.”

As I responded, Oliver, who had turned pale, gave me a sign. It then occurred to me, one must use honorifics when responding to the Queen,

“…Your Majesty.”

Although I added the honorific late, Oliver’s expression did not soften.

Wondering why, I heard the Queen’s voice, tinged with laughter.

“Oliver, do not be so tense. I am not foolish enough to blame the ignorant.”

“Tha… Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“And you, foreigner, did you say your name is Logan?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The reason for Oliver’s pallor was my incorrect use of honorifics.

Fortunately, Queen Mary showed a generosity that belied her notorious reputation. It was hard to understand why such a woman was called ‘Bloody Mary.’

“You, the foreign chef Logan. Do you intend to reveal your real name to me?”

“Yes…?”

Her sudden question about my name being a pseudonym, perhaps a probe due to my foreign appearance, or maybe she had heard something.

While I pondered, Queen Mary spoke with a slight smile.

“Why so surprised? An Englishman’s name is no different from an Italian’s. If such is the case for countries not far apart, what of a foreigner like you? Now, I will ask again. Do you intend to reveal your real name?”

Considering the Queen’s behavior thus far, there was no reason to hide my real name, and I was about to reveal it.

Bishop Thomas and Bishop Steve must think I have amnesia. If I revealed my real name here, I feared Bishop Steve would interrogate me, so I decided to evade.

“Your Majesty. I cannot remember my name, let alone my surname, as much as I wish to answer you.”

At my response, the corners of the Queen’s mouth lifted slightly. It was unclear whether she was mocking or genuinely amused.

—

“Yes, if that’s the case, there’s nothing to be done.”

“I apologize, Your Majesty.”

“As I’ve just said, I do not blame those who are ignorant. If you do not remember, then let it be. This dish you’ve prepared, it seems to contain pasta… What is the name of this dish?”

Oliver had said, my cooking pleased the Queen enough to summon me.

The chef’s meat was left half-eaten, not even a quarter consumed, but the plate that held my dish was wiped clean. And seeing the chef glaring at me from one side, it seemed the Queen quite fancied my ‘Cream Kalguksu.’

“Yes, Your Majesty. Please call it ‘Cream Pasta.'”

Since the Queen referred to the noodles as pasta, it seemed better to adapt and call it cream pasta.

“Cream Pasta?”

“It’s a dish where I boiled pasta and lightly sautéed it in my homemade cream stew.”

“Cream stew, so that white thing wasn’t a sauce but a stew? I had no idea, and I ate it with my hands…”

To think she ate pasta with her hands, it seemed the royal court was no different.

Neither in the servant quarters where I first stayed nor in Bishop Steven’s residence where I reside now, were there any forks or knives to be seen.

The dining habits were similar across all ranks of people. Whether nobility or the servants at Bishop Eli’s manor, stew was eaten with a spoon, and meat and bread were picked up with hands.

Still, I thought the royal court would use different utensils, but to find they did not use any at all was astonishing.

“Hmm… Bishop Steven, you are quite mischievous. You knew Logan’s dish was a stew and yet you watched in silence?”

At the Queen’s words, Bishop Steven replied in a playful tone.

“Your Majesty enjoyed it so much, there was hardly a moment to interject. Forgive me.”

To which the Queen also responded playfully.

“I never dreamed that one I thought loyal would betray me. You seek forgiveness after betraying your Queen?”

“Only mercy, I pray.”

—

“Hmm… If you seek mercy, then a price must be paid. In exchange for forgiving you, I shall take your chef away.”

“As you wish.”

I can’t tell if my ears are deceiving me or if the queen has lost her mind.

After a round of playful role-playing, what did she say? She wants to do what with the chef from the bishop?

“Logan, you must listen.”

Caught off guard by the sudden turn of events, I belatedly responded to the queen’s words.

“Yes… Your Majesty…”

“Your culinary skills are truly remarkable. It was the most delicious meal I have ever tasted, so you may take pride in it.”

“Th… thank you.”

“I wish to taste your cooking again. Henceforth, I will have you enter the royal kitchen, and you, Logan, will prepare our evening meals.”

To bring an uncertain stranger claiming amnesia into the royal kitchen— the queen must be mad.

Bishop Steve, capable of discernment, might have been able to dissuade the queen…

“Heh… It seems Her Majesty is quite taken with Logan’s cooking. As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Far from dissuading, Bishop Steve was encouraging her.

I wanted to reject the queen’s offer immediately, but her tone suggested that my employment in the royal kitchen was a foregone conclusion.

I longed to shout that I couldn’t work in her kitchen, but lacked the courage to refuse the direct employment offer from the most powerful ruler of 16th-century England.

Thus, I began working in the royal kitchen, but it was far from a joyous occasion.

For it was not Mary, recorded as a loser in history, whom I wished to meet, but Elizabeth, the victor.

* * *

Two weeks have passed since I started working in the royal kitchen, coerced by Queen Mary’s not-so-subtle insistence.

Working in the royal kitchen didn’t mean I was confined to the palace every day.

Occasionally, I ventured outside the palace walls to explore the streets of 16th-century London, a luxury afforded by the ample time at my disposal. My sole duty was to prepare the Queen’s evening stew.

My outings were not merely for sightseeing. Commuting from Bishop Steve’s residence to the palace required familiarizing myself with London’s pathways during this era.

When not preparing the Queen’s dinner, it was Bishop Steve’s meals that needed tending. He must have enjoyed my cooking, as he entrusted me with his breakfast preparations.

Thus, my life oscillated between Bishop Steve’s residence and the royal palace.

Over the past two weeks, commuting to the royal kitchen allowed me to grow quite close to the other chefs, including the head chef Marco—despite his initial hostility on my first day.

He tormented me by hiding cooking utensils or not disclosing where ingredients were kept, and what was more irritating was that the other chefs joined in, openly expressing their displeasure towards me.

It seemed they were wary of me.

And perhaps they had reason to be. The Queen, who barely touched her breakfast and lunch, would scrape clean the ‘stew’ I made every evening.

Observing the general atmosphere, I concluded that staying silent would only prolong the awkwardness.

Considering I didn’t know how long I’d be here, there was no need to make enemies.

For that reason, I shared my cooking methods with the royal chefs. Starting with head chef Marco, I taught them modern recipes that could be utilized in this era.

This led to other chefs occasionally receiving empty plates back from the Queen.

“Today’s meal was satisfactory as well. But tell me, who made this sauce that accompanied the meat?”

“I… I did, Your Majesty.”

“Marco, it is you! No need to tremble. Indeed, you are worthy of someone who has served the royal kitchen for six years. I look forward to your continued service.”

Among them, the most skilled chef Marco received high praise from the Queen for the modern gravy sauce recipe I had taught him.

“…Logan.”

“Yes?”

“…Thank you.”

On the evening when he received high praise from the queen, it was Chef Marco who first extended the olive branch. Naturally, I grasped the hand of reconciliation he offered.

From that day on, no one in the kitchen dared to bully me.

And as a week or so passed, I was able to melt into the royal kitchen’s fold.

About a week after the bullying stopped, I saw an unexpected side of the woman called ‘Bloody Mary.’

Or should I say, a side different from what I knew? For I had vaguely known Queen Mary as a tyrant.

There were days when I had to prepare an extra portion for dinner, and on such days, Bishop Steve always came to visit the queen.

As I prepared and brought the meal for Bishop Steve and Queen Mary, I could overhear their conversations, which naturally revolved around the ‘politics’ of England.

Every time she spoke with Bishop Steve, the queen always talked about her duty. And today, like any other day, the two shared the same conversation.