by Betina Krahn
Graham’s eyes widened as it sank in. “Then the duke’s daughters may still be in danger.”
Hugh was relieved to have his suspicions given credence. Perhaps he wasn’t losing his mind after all.
“What do we do?” Graham said anxiously. “Tell Lady Chloe and the others?”
“And have a clutch of hysterical females on our hands?” Hugh gave him a withering look. “Besides, we have no real proof.” He glanced toward the great round tower that commanded all of England. “Dammit—if Edward had only taken a few moments to hear … I never got the chance to tell him about the attacks in France.”
“You didn’t?” Graham’s shock was probably foreshadowing the king’s.
“He was occupied and then closeted with the queen. Then he ordered me to help with this wife test nonsense, and there didn’t seem to be a good time to put it before him.” His shoulders sagged. “And, truth be told, it didn’t seem all that urgent, since the maids were safe at Windsor.”
“Still”—Graham shook his head—“he should have been told.”
“I know. I’ll request an audience tonight after—dammit!”
“What is it?”
“He’s ordered feasting tonight. He decreed that the whole court will partake of the maids’ dishes, to make up for the ruined cooking test.” He winced. “God knows what else will strike his fancy before the night is over … dancing … balladeering … versifying … it could go on forever.”
Graham gave a sympathetic groan and fingered the hilt of his blade.
“Should we tell Simon, William, and Jax?”
Hugh considered that for a moment. Edward wouldn’t countenance being the last to know of a possible threat.
“We’ll tell them to stay close to the maids and keep alert … that two accidents in two days is one too many. God knows that’s true.” He clapped a hand on Graham’s shoulder as they headed back to the castle. “And we’ll make certain they wear their blades.”
As if the audience they endured during the cooking test weren’t enough of a strain, the maids were now informed that the entire court would partake of their special dishes along with their prospective husbands. They were under no illusion; the tasting was the lesser part of the evening’s agenda. Unspoken was the understanding that the entire court would now have a chance to offer opinions on their merit. The others looked to Chloe in dismay, Chloe looked to Lady Marcella, and Lady Marcella squinted at her star charts and decreed that the evening would be auspicious for gustatory indulgence … or for fumigating one’s linen storage …
As they entered the great hall, it was clear that everyone who was anyone at court was present, robed in their finest garments. Voices were spirited and there was wine-warmed laughter from several quarters. The side tables had been lengthened to accommodate more people and the rushes underneath had been sweetened with dried flowers. The torches that hung on brackets along the side walls had been replaced with fresh bundles of dipped rushes, and the linen draping the head table was adorned with embroidered hangings.
The special trappings were intended to honor the queen, who arrived on the king’s arm, looking burdened by her advanced pregnancy but regal nonetheless. As the first course was brought out, officially tasted, and set before the king, he called out to Hugh and Chloe, who sat opposite each other.
“Who is responsible for this dish?”
Since Sir Hugh didn’t know and couldn’t respond, Chloe rose and spoke for them both.
“Actually, Highness, that is meant to remain a secret.”
“Why so?” Edward gestured to her sisters. “Should not the creator of the dish receive credit for her work?”
“Yes, Highness. But it is part of the test to have the husbands-to-be choose their favorite dish without knowing who sponsored it. In that way a true pairing of the senses may be achieved.”
The king studied that, then nodded and turned his scrutiny to the bowl that had been set before him. “And what is this called?”
“Lasagne, Highness. The flat noodles are covered with a sauce of ground basil and pine nuts and the oil of olives. Then a special tart cheese from Parma is sprinkled between the layers.”
“Lasagne.” He gave his taster, standing nearby, a glance. The fellow seemed hale enough. He reached for his knife and cut a portion of the wide, flat noodles. The noise in the hall dipped noticeably as all watched the king partake.
“Good. Quite excellent, in fact!” Edward declared with a smile, turning to the queen. “Here, my dear, you must try this.”
Deprived of the identity of the author of the recipe, the king’s guests quickly turned their energies to guessing which maid seemed likely to have produced it. In that, they followed the lead of the husbands-to-be, who rolled their eyes with pleasure at the piquant flavors and teased the maids about who was most likely to prefer such food.
Then the second dish came out: a Lorraine tart made of eggs and cream in pastry, and filled with bacon, leeks, and a pungent yellow cheese imported from the mountains between Italy and the German provinces. Chloe explained the list of ingredients, and again the king tasted it and shared it with the queen.
“Deceptively simple,” Lord William declared to the maids and bachelors with a grin. “Must be Margarete.”
“A refined taste for such simple ingredients,” Lord Simon ventured with a smile at Helen, who glowed. “That can only be Lady Helen.”
All around the hall, the dishes were drawing praise for being artfully seasoned and tempting to the eye as well as the palate. The meal validated the renown of the wives produced by the Brides of Virtue and heightened respect for the convent’s standards. If the duke’s lovely daughters were as knowledgeable in other household areas as they seemed to be in “cuisine,” the courtiers agreed, then the men slated to become their husbands were fortunate indeed.
Next came a dish of grilled mackerel with a sweet, peppery cameline sauce … a spicy, cinnamon, raisin, almond milk, and white wine concoction with a tang of black pepper, which complimented the smoky flavor of the fish.
“Unexpectedly spicy,” Lord Jaxton opined. “This is from Alaina.”
“Too much pepper,” the old Earl of Ketchum declared, dropping his knife and stubbornly folding his arms. “I’ll not spend the night in the garderobe.”
Then came a cherry duckling ambrogino … a cassoulet of duck that was fried and then steeped in a sauce of tart wine, mustard, spices, brown sugar, and dried cherries. Sweet and sour, filled with intricate layers of flavor … it elicited groans of pleasure from diners all over the hall.
“So complex … it must be from Alaina.”
“Seduces the senses and the judgment. From Lisette’s hand, surely.”
“Don’t care who made it. ’Tis a pure invitation to the gout.”
It was the first dish that the husband candidates truly disagreed on. Chloe was heartened. Each man seemed to hold a different opinion on the taste and a different idea on which maid was responsible for it. The maids, to their credit, parried the men’s inquiries and compliments with admirable grace, while keeping the identity of the dish’s sponsor a secret.
Then came a fifth course … a taillis, a dried fruit pudding that had been chosen by all five of the maids together as a proper finish to the main meal … before the final entrements … almond-stuffed dates, apple jelly sweets, and honeyed walnuts.
Chloe watched the pudding being tasted and served to the king and turned to her sisters in alarm.
“But that was to come last. Where is the fifth dish … the quail pie?”
Catching one of the servers, she asked him to go for the kitchen steward. Some minutes later the harried fellow appeared, looking as if he expected to have his ears boxed. He bore news of culinary catastrophe, sputtered profuse apologies, and rushed back to the kitchens to try to make amends. Sir Hugh saw Chloe’s distress and the steward’s pleading manner and demanded to know what was wrong.
“One of the dishes is missing,” Chloe revealed, raising her chin.
“How can that be? We have been served five courses.”
“The last of which, the taillis, was agreed upon by all of us. One of our individual offerings is missing. The test won’t be complete without it.”
“Whose dish is it?”
“To say would defeat the purpose of the test, would it not?”
“I’m helping to give the damned test, remem—”
The king’s voice issued suddenly through the hall.
“Lady Chloe!”
She paled and, after taking a moment to compose herself, rose.
“Let us proceed with this cooking test,” the king commanded.
“I fear that will not be possible, Your Highness,” she said, stepping out from the her seat to stand before the royal couple. “There was to be one more dish … and the kitchen steward informed me that there was a mishap. It cannot be served until tomorrow. Thus, the finish of the test must be postponed.”
“Wait!” came a voice from the steps that led outside and to the kitchens. “Wait, milady—we’ve managed to rescue one of the pies!”
The red-faced kitchen steward bustled through the assembly, ushering ahead of him two kitchen lads carrying a wooden litter on which sat a large, flat-bottomed dish covered with pastry. It was clear as the dish arrived that the pastry had been charred along the edges and then trimmed to remove much of the damage. It was hardly the elegant presentation expected for such a dish. But when Chloe looked at the steward, his anxiety was perilously close to her own.
“There were to be several special quail pies,” she said, turning apologetically to the king and queen.
“But since this one has come through, can we not make do with it?” the king asked in a way that made it less a question than a command.
She made a small curtsy. “We can, Your Highness.” When she beckoned to the appointed husbands to come and sample the pie, Sir Hugh joined them and the maids scrambled up to collect nearby, holding hands, their eyes wide with expectation. Suddenly everyone in the hall was hurrying forward and crowding around to watch.
The steward dabbed sweat from his brow, then produced a sharp knife and made several long, shallow cuts across the broad pastry top. Nodding nervously to Chloe, he peeled back a small piece of the center crust.
Four white doves suddenly burst from the pastry and began to soar toward the rafters, drawing exclamations and squeals of delight from the courtiers and even the queen herself. Laughter erupted as the Earl of Ketchum was startled by one of the birds and snorted, flailed, and sputtered.
“Fine quail indeed,” the king said laughing. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen such pie … but it is certainly the most satisfying! I cannot help speculating as to which of you maidens might be responsible.” He looked to the men he had chosen to honor with brides and took matters into his own hands. “So, let us get on with the choosing. As I understand it … the husbands are to state their preferences.” He looked to Chloe, who seemed a bit flustered by his sudden exercise of authority, but nodded. “Good! Bring each of the dishes forward and place them before us.”
There was a scramble to locate the remnants of the other four dishes and place them side by side on the table, in front the king and queen.
Chloe felt events spiraling out of her control as one by one the men stepped forward to declare their preference. Miraculously—or perhaps in an intentional effort to avoid conflict—each of the men chose a different dish; Lord Simon, the lasagne; Sir William, the Lorraine tart; Sir Jaxton, the grilled mackerel with cameline; and Sir Graham, who seemed to be holding his breath as the others chose before him, picked the cherry duckling. Then all looked to the old Earl of Ketchum, who scratched his head.
“Too much pepper all around.” He snubbed the four main dishes. “So I’ll take … that quail pie. Though,” he added grudgingly, “th’ meat could stand to be a site better cooked.” There was considerable laughter, which the old boy joined when he realized he had just made a jest.
“Now, Lady Chloe, reveal to us the sponsors of the dishes,” the king commanded, and was struck by another idea. “And we shall pair them up for the dancing!” The court cheered the notion.
Chloe found herself the object of a hundred stares, none of which were as intense or meaningful as those of her sisters. Their flushed faces were filled with covert pleas for her to consider their preferences and pair them with their favorites. She caught a glimpse of Sir Hugh watching her with his arms crossed and his expression suspicious. He was just waiting for her to hand Sir Graham over to Lisette again and Lord Simon over to Helen. She had to show him that the wife test didn’t bow to her or anyone’s preferences.
“The Lorraine tart was Lady Alaina’s,” she declared. Sir William held out a hand to that nettled-looking maid. “The lasagne was Lady Lisette’s.” Lord Simon, who was leaning on Helen’s shoulder, peeled his hand from her to offer it to the maid of Mornay. “The mackerel with cameline was Lady Helen’s.” Sir Jaxton seemed a bit surprised, but moved quickly to offer her his arm. “And the cherry duckling was Lady Margarete’s.” Graham’s eyes flew wide with delight, and he eagerly offered Margarete his hand.
“The quail pie … was …” She swallowed, unable to make herself say it.
“Lady Chloe’s, of course.” Sir Hugh’s voice came from behind her and carried out over the gathering. “Who else would value cleverness over taste?”
He stepped forward, grabbed Chloe’s arm, and hauled her over to place her hand on old Ketchum’s crusty sleeve. When she looked up in ill-disguised dismay, he gave her a faintly vengeful smile.
“Music!” the king’s voice rang out and he clapped. The reedy strains of lyre, pipes, and recorders quickly swelled and were joined by the infectious tam of a drum. “Clear the floor! Let us have some dancing!”
The long side tables were cleared and dismantled as the musicians began to play. The first dance was a simple ring dance, which allowed the maids to easily mind their feet as they discharged their duty. Afterward, they retired quickly to the benches at the side of the hall and settled alongside their appointed escorts … where they endured long silences as they watched the courtiers perform more complex steps.
The evening proceeded with music and ballads and the copious consumption of wine and ale. Toasts were made to the queen’s health and the coming child, and then she retired. As the king escorted her out, more toasts were raised to the royal couple … all of which gave the husband candidates a chance to rise and drink and escape their partners for a while … except Sir Graham, who stayed close by Margarete’s side. During one such interval, Chloe called the men together to announce the next day’s task … the “gift test,” and then Sir Hugh snagged the reluctant Sir Graham by the arm and dragged him out of the hall.
Ballads were sung in praise of courtly love, heroic battle, and the excitement of the hunt. As the wine and ale flowed, the songs grew more raucous … celebrating in vivid imagery the passions of red-haired women, the trials of growing old, and the tumult of married life. When a group of tipsy nobles pulled her sisters out into the center of the hall to teach them dance steps, Chloe declined the invitation and remained behind on the bench. After the lesson the maids retired quickly from the floor, settled in a silent row beside Chloe, and eyed her coolly.
She glanced at the Earl of Ketchum, dozing on the other side of her, and was thankful that he had finally succumbed to the wine and ceased his rambling on the pedigrees of long-dead hounds and the glories of hunts gone by. Her spirits wilted as she surveyed his shrunken, drooping jaw and stringy frame, and realized that of all the present pairings, this was probably the one that would prove a glimpse of things to come.
There were five future brides and only four manly and agreeable young bridegrooms. One of them had to marry the aged, hound-obsessed earl. And since she had vowed to see her sisters settled in good and proper marriages, that left only herself to pair with him. Was he to be her punishment for presuming to take her destiny into her own hands?
/> Sir Hugh’s face flashed into her mind as she watched the old fellow’s nose drip. Imagine kissing him like—
No, don’t imagine.
“Chloe? That you?” When she looked up, Lady Marcella was leaning on a walking stick, squinting down at her in the uneven torchlight.
“Yes, Lady Marcella. It’s me.” She scooted to one side to make room for the old lady, and gave the wood beside her a pat.
“Off in Camelot, were you?” The old lady smiled as she settled her bones wearily on the bench. “Spinning dreams out of minstrels’ songs?”
“Not exactly.” She looked at old Ketchum, snoring on her other side, and felt her throat tighten as she spoke. “I don’t have such dreams, milady. I know what my future holds, and a sow’s ear is still a sow’s ear even if you do manage to make it into a purse.”
“A sow’s ear?” The old lady gave Chloe’s tightly clasped hands a pat. “I used to believe it was better not to listen to dreams … that they would lead you astray … make you long for things you shouldn’t.”
“Used to?” Chloe asked, studying the old lady with the bent shoulders and faded eyes. It was difficult to imagine she was ever a young girl with great, romantic dreams.
“I was always such a clever one.” Marcella raised one knotty finger, then used it to tap her temple. “Too smart to get caught up in ‘building castles in Spain.’ I had a young cousin, you see … a dear, sweet thing who fostered with us. So lovely and fresh. Everyone’s favorite. Her eyes were so big and blue … She fell in love with a foreigner and ran off with him.” Her face seemed to grow older and sadder with each word. “Died soon after, we heard. In a strange land, wi’ no family to comfort her. I was bereft.” She tapped her temple again. “But I learned. Married as my old father bid me and bore my husband five children. All dead now. Then, when my husband’s nephew inherited all, he took pity on me and brought me to Windsor to serve the queen. Bromley was always such a good-hearted boy.”
