by Betina Krahn
“Milord—wait! Ohhh, I was afraid of this.” Greeve motioned irritably to the count’s squire to take their lord his mail and sword. “Milord, wait for your arms! The fair is full of knights and squires—”
Julia stood in the stall outside a rich spice merchant’s tent, listening to the yarn the merchant was spinning about the origin of the scrolls of cinnamon bark displayed in a long, narrow wooden box before her. With her were Sir Axel and a score of other folk who had heard her spirited bargaining and gravitated to the stall to witness her battle of wits with the canny spice seller.
“… grown in a faraway land on a tree that is surrounded and tended by mighty winged beasts … with claws like scythes and beaks as sharp as swords,” the merchant declared, each word more dramatic than the last. Murmurs went through the crowd. “They protect the trees so that they may use the bark and leaves to make their nests. The men who harvest the cinnamon must wait until the beasts are asleep before they can cut the branches. Very dangerous work. If the beasts should awaken …”
Julia stared pointedly at the voluble merchant.
“I don’t care if the beasts’ beaks are the size of long shields, monsieur. Two livres a pound is still too much to pay for cinnamon.”
The merchant grasped his chest and groaned.
“You will not find cinnamon as fresh and potent as mine anywhere else.” He could see his usual tactics failing and leaned closer to her. “But for you, lovely lady, I have something special.”
“It will have to be nothing short of miraculous if you think it will blind me to the robbery you would practice on me,” she said, rolling her eyes and drawing chuckles and calls of encouragement from the mixed crowd of men and women. While the merchant retreated to the interior of the tent to search his chests and spice boxes, she turned to Axel to whisper. “Not a denier more than a livre a pound. And we must have five pounds at least.”
Her eye caught a trio of knights standing not far away, watching her intently. Realizing that they had caught her eye, one gave her an openly admiring smile that made her keenly aware of her exposed hair. Color bloomed in her cheeks. What would happen if she smiled back?
She dropped her gaze to the box of cinnamon the merchant’s assistant was closing to protect it from the sun, and busied herself looking at the samples of other spices laid out for her consideration. She picked up a few of the peppercorns from the lot she had already agreed to purchase and tested them by rubbing them briskly between her palms and smelling them afterward. The friction produced a lovely true pepper scent, which she shared with Sir Axel. Then she picked up a sampling of cloves, smelled them, and put one clove in her mouth. The taste was pleasantly spicy and astringent.
From the corner of her eye she could see the knights moving closer and felt her heart beat faster. They couldn’t know who she was, so it might be a chance to practice being a woman as much as a cook. She was, after all, looking for a husband …
“Here, milady. You must try these.” The merchant returned with a box in which resided a bag of elongated brown seeds that looked somewhat familiar.
“What are they?” she said, frowning, then catching the scent of them in the warming sun. She lowered her head and breathed deeply. “They’re like cumin … only so much stronger. And with more anise.”
She popped a seed into her mouth and crushed it with her teeth. Inhaling the scent as she savored the taste, she found it strong, but clean and pleasant. “A variety of cumin? What is it called?”
“Caraway, milady.”
“And I suppose it comes from the Great Nile River, where it is pulled out by natives with nets made of pure gold,” she said dryly, eliciting laughter all around. The merchant reddened.
“It comes from the lowland regions to the north. And is especially good in sour pottages, though I’m told it is sometimes used in breads.”
“I’ll take half a pound,” she said, not caring to hide her pleasure. Then she realized she hadn’t yet heard the price and added: “If it’s not too dear.”
The merchant scowled. “It is rare in these parts. At nine sous per half pound, you would be stealing it from me.”
“Then call me a clever thief, because I’ll have it for seven,” she declared, setting the onlookers laughing as she retied the bag and handed it to Sir Axel. “And I’ll have a pound of galingale, a pound of mace, and a pound of grains of paradise. Five pounds of loaf sugar. Half a pound of powdered ginger. A pound of each of fennel seed, dill seed, and coriander. Did I say cloves? Two full pounds of cloves.” She watched the merchant making tallies on his wax tablet and setting his assistants scurrying with the indicated commodities to the nearby scales, and asked Sir Axel if he would accompany them to see the weighing.
Watching the merchant adding up the cost, she arrived at the staggering amount well before he did. Heaven grant that Sir Greeve return soon, she prayed. And with a healthy purse.
“Now, about that cinnamon,” she said.
“Before we settle on that price, let me show you one more confiture … something seldom seen in Paris, much less the rest of France.”
“Give her her price, you skinflint.”
She looked around to find that the three knights had worked their way forward in the crowd. The one who had spoken was standing not far away with his thick arms crossed and his eyes alight with an interest she sensed had nothing to do with her bargaining ability.
“The cinnamon.” He clarified it. “Sell it to her for what she offered.”
Her face flamed as a number of the crowd agreed noisily and began to harangue the merchant to do as the knight had said.
“But wait—how about this?” the merchant declared, pulling a handful of cloth from behind his back and opening it. She stood on her tiptoes to see what he held and caught a flash of orange. He held it out to her and everyone in the front of the crowd leaned forward to see it as well.
“Is that …”
“Orange. Sugared orange. Sweet and tart. And just look at the color. Have you ever seen such a—”
The bold knight broke through the front of the crowd to snatch a piece of the sugared orange, holding it up and turning it around in the bright afternoon sun. Startled by his action, Julia looked up and he caught her gaze in his.
“So this is what an ‘orange’ is like, eh?” He smiled. “I heard of them in Spain, when we fought there, but the Turks had stripped the trees as they retreated. Have you ever tried one, demoiselle?”
“I have not, sir,” she answered, instinctively lowering her eyes.
“Nor have I. And there may be no better time than now.” He broke the piece in half, took a bite, and thrust the second piece toward her. When her mouth opened in surprise, he slipped it between her lips. The merchant gasped at his outrageous behavior and ordered him to leave the stall, but the knight only looked to his friends and laughed.
“Here’s for your wares, spice monger.” He flipped a huge silver coin to the merchant, who caught it, glared at it, then looked up in surprise.
“But this is—”
“Too much, I know. I’ll take the rest in your sugared oranges.”
Julia’s mouth watered wonderfully with the savor of the sweet-tart comfit. So this was the peel and meat of an orange, she thought, mildly astonished at the flavor and at how she had acquired this sample of it.
Across the table of wares, her benefactor watched her reaction with amusement. He was a tall, clean-limbed younger knight with a pleasantly muscular face, wearing a tabard of crimson and white over mail. When the flustered merchant handed him a small cloth bag containing several pieces of sugared orange, he offered them immediately to Julia.
“Thank you, kind sir, but I cannot.” She shoved her hands to her sides.
“Oh, but you must,” the knight said in a teasing tone. “For I will not take it and if you do not, our greedy merchant here will have both my coin and your oranges. Which will only encourage his penchant for overcharging and contribute to the endangerment of his immortal soul
. Hardly a Christian outcome. Won’t you agree, milady?” He continued to hold it out, until two voices from the crowd declared that if she didn’t take it, they would. When she did reach for it, he held on to it for a moment longer to make her look at him.
“I must beg a favor, milady.” His lowered voice sent a trill of excitement through her shoulders. “That you think of me each time you enjoy a taste.”
“What the devil is going on here?” an all-too-familiar voice roared above the gathering.
Julia wheeled to find the count and Sir Greeve standing to the side of the stall, watching in disbelief as she accepted costly treats from a strange knight. She had sent Greeve for His Lordship’s money and he had brought His Lordship instead. If only the ground would open and swallow her whole.
“Your Lordship!” She gave a small dip of acknowledgment and thought better of trying to get through the crowd to where he stood glowering at her. A bit of distance between them just now seemed wise. “We were just trying a wonderful new sweetmeat. Sugared oranges. From Spain.”
“Did I or did I not send you to buy spices this day?”
“Of course you did, milord.”
“Then where the devil are they?” he demanded, invading the crowd and sending several onlookers scrambling out of his way.
“They are here, milord.” She waved at the variety of samples spread upon the table while tucking the sugared oranges into the folds of her gown. “And the rest is with Sir Axel, who is watching the weighing. You will be pleased to learn that I have been quite careful with your coin.” She nodded to the outraged spice merchant, hoping to induce him into a confirming nod.
“A veritable miser,” he grumbled.
“And knowing how you love it”—she forced an excessively sprightly smile—“the first spice I purchased today was pepper.”
At the mention of that spice, his face became as dark as a thundercloud. But that was only a pale forerunner of the fury that filled his countenance when he turned to face her orange-buying gallant. Julia was stunned by the drastic change in her already imposing employer; he seemed to grow a foot taller. The blood drained from her head so abruptly that she swayed.
“Who the hell are you? And why are you interfering with my cook?” Griffin ground out, addressing the knight who had been smiling at Julia of Childress. But in truth, he already knew. The knight wore the colors of the one house in all of France that roused in him true loathing … the house and lineage that had brought his family nothing but loss and grief.
“Martin de Gies, of the House of Verdun,” the young knight declared evenly, his gaze lowering with contempt to the shield of blue and green on the tabard Griffin wore. “And you can only be the Bea—the Comte de Grandaise.” He took a step back, watching Griffin carefully, his arms tensed at his sides and the hilt of his sword suddenly visible as his leg nudged it forward. They were small movements that spoke of readiness to fight and of training that would make that fight a pitched battle. Then he seemed to realize what Griffin had said.
“What do you mean interfering with your ‘cook’ ?” De Gies glanced at Julia. “Do you mean to say this is your cook?”
“She is.”
“I had no way of knowing.” He slid his gaze back to Griffin, assessing him with the same eye for threat Griffin employed. “I do not dally with turnspits or scullions.”
Griffin saw Julia’s eyes widen at the knight’s words as if she’d been struck, and he took an involuntary step closer to the wretch. Suddenly Greeve was at his back and two knights also bearing Verdun’s colors were shoving their way to the front of the crowd. Griffin’s hand itched to close around the hilt of his blade, but he glanced from de Gies to Julia, to the merchant and shocked crowd.
It was a bad place for a fight. Property and innocents would be at risk, and the odds were unknown. Greeve was with him and Axel was nearby, but he had no idea how many more of Verdun’s men might be lurking about, full of wine and spoiling for a fight. He could see de Gies making the same calculations.
“She is neither turnspit nor scullion,” he declared tautly. “You would be well advised to hold your tongue in the presence of your betters.” Abruptly he turned and seized Julia by the arm. “And you,” he growled, pushing her into Greeve’s hands. “Go straight back to camp and remain there until I return. Is that understood?” He slashed a glare at Greeve. “See she gets there.”
“Yea, milord,” Greeve said with determination as he threaded Julia’s arm through his and dragged her out into the lane.
“But my spices—” she protested.
“Go!” Griffin roared.
Both his fury and the danger of the situation finally registered with Julia. She ceased resisting Sir Greeve’s grip and allowed herself to be hauled away.
It was some moments before she could sort out her tumultuous thoughts enough to demand an explanation. Sir Greeve said nothing at first, bustling her along the lanes and skirting the open areas, until they reached the edge of the fair. Only when they had left the last stalls and tents well behind did he slow his pace enough to respond.
“Why was His Lordship so furious?” she demanded, dragging her heels to slow him down. “Who was that knight?”
“A vassal of the Count of Verdun,” Greeve said, spitting afterward as if the name fouled his mouth. Such a vehement action from the usually sanguine Sir Greeve shocked her.
“And who is this ‘Count of Verdun’ ? Why does the very sight of his men cause His Lordship to go apoplectic?”
Greeve chewed on that question for a moment. Then, finding no one near them on the rutted road, he sighed and finally halted to face her.
“Verdun is His Lordship’s closest neighbor. His sworn and bitter enemy. And soon to be … his father-in-law.”
Chapter Ten
With Julia out of the way, Griffin turned to his opponent with a soldier’s acceptance of what would happen next. If it came to a fight, he was ready. If his opponent was not ready to engage, then he would gladly withdraw. He had to find out which it would be and took a calculated risk.
“What the hell are you doing in Paris?” he demanded of the knight. “Where is your lord?”
After a moment Martin de Gies allowed his shoulders to lower a degree.
“My seigneur is still in the city. He had to retrieve his daughter from the convent at St. Denis.”
Griffin tried not to flinch at that reminder of his fate.
“Take your lord a word from me.” He felt the charge of the air around him shift subtly as someone approached from behind and he prayed the eyes boring into his back did not belong to Bardot, Count of Verdun. “Tell him I will not expect to set eyes on him or his banner again”—his eyes dropped to de Gies’s tabard—“until the event to which we both are commanded by the king.”
He watched the knight’s eyes drift to whomever was coming up behind him and held his breath until Verdun’s vassal began to back away, turned with his comrades, and strode off in the direction of the city road.
A moment later Griffin nearly jumped out of his skin when Axel gave him a good-natured thump on the back.
“Ho, milord!”
“Where the hell have you been?” He wheeled, growling with relief that it was his own loyal knight.
Axel fell back a step and scanned the spice stall in confusion.
“I was just—where is the demoiselle?” He held up one of two meaty fists filled with bags and bundles. “She asked me to witness the weighing while she continued to—what’s happened, seigneur?” He followed Griffin’s stare to a glimpse of alarming red and white disappearing down the lane.
“Three of Verdun’s knights.” Griffin gestured toward that flash of dreaded colors. “I found your ‘demoiselle’ standing in the middle of a crowd making a spectacle of herself with one of them.” Laughing. And glowing with the reflected interest that only a pretty woman could inspire in men.
His hands curled into fists as the memory replayed itself. His stubborn cook … smiling … opening her mout
h … He shook free of that vision.
“You were supposed to be overseeing her purchases and making certain that she bought spices and goods for cooking. What the devil were you doing playing servant and handmaiden?”
“Well, it seemed prudent to assist—”
“Pardon, milord.” The spice merchant had recovered from his fright at the confrontation and now approached Griffin.
“What?” Griffin barked at him.
“The tally, milord.” The merchant put forth his wax tablet for Griffin to see. “The lady—er—demoiselle had agreed to purchase a number of fine spices before she left.”
Griffin was taken aback. He’d just caught his cook in a flirtation with his sworn enemy’s henchmen and had damn near come to battle blows. Now it was all back to normal and hi-ho-milord-here-is-the-bill?
“And at very fine prices.” Axel added the weight of his own expectation to the harried merchant’s. “She managed to get cinnamon for a livre a pound.” He looked at the merchant, who realized that his entire sale hung in the balance, swallowed hard, and nodded. “Five whole pounds of cinnamon.” He quivered with anticipation. “We shall have buckets of cameline sauce, and spiced pears, and spiced wafers … and imagine the tasty cups of hypocras of an evening …”
“Eighteen livres, milord,” the merchant announced with a hint of timidity. With good reason.
It was a bloody fortune in spices! Griffin came within a hairsbreadth of telling the merchant where to stuff his short-weighted and overpriced luxuries. But then he looked between Axel and the ashen-faced merchant and heard the whispers beginning to waft through the onlookers and spreading through the nearby stalls. There he was, they said, the Beast of Grandaise. In the flesh.
The slightest misstep on his part would be witnessed and repeated and retold, and would reach the heart of Paris before another day was out. The king would doubtless hear of it—Verdun would see to that—and his credibility with the king would reach another new low.
So, he did what any right-thinking lord would do when presented with a choice between a bill and a humiliation. He paid it.
