by Betina Krahn
Her face reddened as she kicked a few absurdly personal conjectures about his motives back into a dark corner of her mind.
But if he thought he was going to hand her back to the abbess at the end of the year, he was sadly mistaken. She would find someone to marry her, even if she had to court an entire garrison with her food. She looked at the eager faces of the men up and down the tables. One of them was going to be hers. It was just a matter of finding one who loved her food enough to defy a duke, a bishop, and an abbess to have it.
Determined to conquer her employer’s stubborn palate, Julia spent part of each day visiting another area of the house and grounds, getting to know those who supplied the kitchens with consumables and letting it be known that there would be a healthy reward from her kitchens for high-quality berries, herbs, verjuice, game, and honey. Everywhere she went people seemed eager to offer her the best from their stores and private larders. And everywhere she went, she bumped into the porcine Demoiselle Fleur. At least she thought it was Fleur.
“Non, non, demoiselle.” The young man accompanying the large pink and gray pig on her rambles shook his head. “This is Margarite, not Fleur. Fleur is Margarite’s mama.”
Then at the gardens, she ran into another, somewhat smaller and pinker beast accompanied by a lad who smelled suspiciously like Jacques the Pigman.
“I don’t suppose this is Fleur, either,” she said as the beast snuffled around at her feet as if trying to decide if she were edible.
“This is our Isobel,” he declared, grinning proudly and scratching the pig’s back. The pig shivered with pleasure. “Fleur is Isobel’s grandmère.”
Fleur, it happened, was the matriarch of a clan of pigs who wandered the estate with human companions, munching castoffs and leavings, and keeping the place surprisingly tidy. Everyone seemed to greet them and feed them … and to accept as normal the fact that animals who were disdained as low and filthy elsewhere, at Grandaise were being accorded an extraordinary amount of respect.
It was only as she watched Isobel lumber toward a woman tossing a basket of peelings from her door that Julia realized that His Lordship had omitted pork from his list of desirable foods. Curiously, now that she thought about it, few pork products other than bacon and fat were kept in the larder.
Other than the roving “pigs of renown,” the estate seemed to be an exemplary demesne: well organized and capably kept. The people were proud of their vineyards and wines, but were no less pleased to speak of the cheeses they made and aged in the cavelike cellars used to hold the casks of wine.
Within days she was garnering the best of the estate’s wild produce and private gardens, poultry, dairy, cellars, ovens, and butcher’s stock … turning it into savory Chicken with Fennel and Lasagne with Herbs and Cheese …
“Filling,” was His Lordship’s assessment.
Roast Goose with Black Grape Sauce and Grave of Quail …
“More blessed bird and gravy.”
Haricot of Lamb with Mint Sauce.
“Never really cared for mint.”
Knowing she must improve the kitchens if she were to charm and win His Lordship’s stubborn palate, she selected and assigned some of the older kitchen girls to serve as apprentice cooks. To her surprise Sister Regine declared she felt guilty just watching the bustle in the kitchen and asked to join them. Both Regine and the girls threw themselves into their new duties and began to ease some of the burden on Old Albee the Fryer, Pennet the Ovenman, and Old Mae the Saucer. The kitchen staff began to catch her determination and take more interest and pride in their work. The courses and accompaniments became increasingly delectable and elaborate.
She was able to produce a lovely Cream Flan and a Blancmange Lyonese.
“Pale.” His Lordship pronounced them.
Poached Eggs in Custard Sauce and Herbed Chard and Cheese Pie …
“More eggs? What—is it Easter again already?” he muttered.
Whole Pear Tart and Layered Dried Fruit Pudding …
“I’ll spend the day dragging my men out of the damned privy.”
Leek and Mushroom Torte, Meats in Aspic, and Porée of Greens …
“ Why is there never any vinegar on my table anymore?”
Cherry Almond Pudding and Spiced Plum Mousse with Honey …
“Fruit and sugar. Sugar and fruit. Do I look like I’m sick?”
The astonishing variety and quality of the food sent exclamations of pleasure and delight throughout the hall. Folk who did not regularly find a place at their lord’s table contrived to present reports and petitions to their lord just before serving began, and eagerly wedged themselves onto the benches and dug into the plentiful platters and aromatic stews. Tensions and rivalries between knights, men-at-arms, and retainers were momentarily lost in pottage bowls, savory filled crusts, and sauce-sodden trenchers. And that improved humor carried forth from the hall into all aspects of the estate and nearby village … easing mistrust and conflict between merchant and patron, tavern keeper and soldier, and vineyard worker and vintager.
But His Lordship’s reaction to the ever improving cuisine was a maddening mix of silent indulgence and vocal criticism that grated ever more harshly on her nerves. For every bite that made him close his eyes to trap and savor a taste or texture, he was sure to toss a dark look or sharply barbed comment her way.
When she served a Parsley-studded Lamb with Pink Garlic Sauce …
“Garlic is too common an herb to deserve such prominence on my table.”
A tender Poached Tuna with Yellow Sauce for a day of abstinence …
“It lacks the proper strong ‘fish’ taste that reminds a body of repentance.”
And sweet and savory King’s Fritters for supper one evening …
“All this sugar they’re rolled in sets a body’s teeth on edge.”
She was proving herself—she thought furiously as she perched on her tasting stool by his chair and watched him wolfing down those woefully “imperfect” fritters—and he was dead set against admitting she was the best cook he’d ever had. Why? Would it kill him to say he liked her food?
She turned to glare at him and found him leaning toward one of his knights seated on the far side, listening. Something in the angle of his jaw and the corded smoothness of his neck trapped her gaze and held it.
Then he smiled. A slow, spreading grin that bore an unexpected hint of mischief. Her stomach collapsed and slid to somewhere in the vicinity of her knees. As he turned, his eyes glinted with irresistible golden lights and his lips glistened with the residue of the wine he’d just sipped.
That was what pleasure looked like on his face.
A sharp and unexpected ache of longing pierced her. Her eyes began to dry as she stared, unblinking, and her breathing grew shallow.
She wanted to make him smile like that. No. She wanted to make him smile at her like that.
She transferred her attention to the band on his nose and the longer she stared at it the more important it seemed. It was that wretched band, she told herself irritably. What did she have to do to get him to remove it and succumb to the pleasures she set before him?
Chapter Seventeen
That same night, across the rolling hills to the west, the Comte de Verdun and his allies were sprawled over chairs and benches in his rush-strewn hall, gorged and wined to insensibility. Around them lay dirty platters, puddles of soured wine, and the contents of overburdened stomachs … the debris of a long and determined rout. The torches burned low and the stench-laden air shook with penetrating snores. A pack of stringy hounds roamed the ruined bowls and platters on the tabletops, picking bones clean and licking up spilled sauces, while their fatter, more successful cousins lay sprawled in the rushes under the table, satisfied and snoring as vigorously as their masters.
Two days of hunting and celebrating had taken their toll on the comte’s fellow nobles and their knights. And when the results of their successful “hunt” were discovered, they could be counted on to take a t
oll on the count’s prime enemy—Grandaise—as well. Verdun, as was his custom, had celebrated with moderation and now merely dozed in his chair. Thus, when a servant hurried in from the side court, he roused and demanded to know what was happening.
“Pardon, milord.” The servant lowered his gaze. “But that rider ye said to watch for … he’s come.”
“In the middle of the damned night?” Verdun rubbed his eyes.
Bertrand de Roland halted at the door for a moment and took in the devastation and the pack of dogs feeding on the remains. Then he spotted the compte and strode for the dark figure blearing at him from the head of the table.
“About time you showed your face,” the comte snapped, struggling to focus both his vision and his ire.
“He keeps us busy, seigneur. I could not get away.”
“And?” He made a winding gesture, demanding Bertrand get to the point.
“And … the Beast trains his men as if he expects to have to fight.”
“As I suspected. And what of the garrison?” When Bertrand looked around them at the bodies caught somewhere between Verdun and oblivion, the compte dismissed his concern. “In their condition, they’re deaf as posts.”
“He drives the men hard of late, but they don’t mind. They are too busy looking forward to their next meal.” When the comte frowned, he continued. “It’s his new cook, seigneur. It seems she really does cook.”
“A tart who cooks?” The compte was not pleased. “Are you certain?”
“I’ve seen her working with my own eyes, seigneur. She is indeed in charge of the kitchens … and feeds Grandaise and his garrison well. Of late, the Beast has lost some of his lean and hungry look.”
“Has he indeed?” Wheels began to turn in Verdun’s mind.
“And Grandaise is fiercely protective of her. He has barred the men of the garrison from the kitchens and gets furious if one of his knights so much as speaks with her.” He pause for a moment, frowning, recalling. “I tossed a girl who cleans in the main house and learned that the cook shares her chamber with a nun who accompanied her from a convent. The house women say that this ‘cook’ is bound to take religious vows someday.”
“A tart posing as a cook who intends to become a nun.” Verdun gave an incredulous laugh and sat forward, fully alert. “This just gets better and better.” His eyes darted back and forth as he looked for elements in Bertrand’s story to assemble into something useful.
“A cook, eh?” He rubbed his chin. “So much the better. Losing a bit of bed sport is one thing, but losing his food … a man cannot wage war or even defend his own lands if he has nothing to eat.”
“What would you have me do, seigneur?” Bertrand de Roland asked, watching carefully the cunning unfolding before his eyes.
“She is a cook, yes? And is this not the season for mushrooms in the forest?”
On Sunday, since most of the food was prepared in advance for the day of rest and cooking duties were light, Julia dragged Regine with her up and down the stairs and through every accessible passage and portal in the great house. Corralling Genevieve, His Lordship’s recently appointed housekeeper, they enlisted her help and had her try her keys in every lock they encountered.
They finally discovered in one of the watch towers a small chamber made to serve as quarters for the men who stood sentry duty in times of peril. When Regine and Genevieve helped Julia open a set of weathered wooden shutters that stretched from floor to ceiling, they discovered a semicircular balcony beyond, complete with stone benches built into the thick stone walls. From the crenelated edge, they could see fully half of the estate’s buildings and housing, and the vineyards to the north and south and the fields and forest to the west.
Julia stood for a few moments in the lowering afternoon sun, lifting her face to the gentle breeze and closing her eyes. She had found just the right place. Air, a beautiful sunset, seclusion …
“This is it.” She turned with a glow of excitement. “We’ll need brooms, buckets, and scrub brushes … plenty of water … and we’ll have to find a table and some pillows for the bench.” She grabbed Genevieve’s hands and squeezed, trying to force some of her enthusiasm through them into the stoic housekeeper. “This is where His Lordship is going to dine tomorrow.”
Griffin strode into the hall the next evening, fingering a small bunch of green grapes and listening to his head vintager’s ideas on how to protect the estate’s far-flung vineyards in the event of a war with Verdun. In the history of their family conflicts, both sides had made a point of avoiding damage to the long-lived vines that were so much a part of each estate’s economy.
But this Comte de Verdun, Griffin knew, made his greedy father and grandfather seem reasonable by comparison. He cared nothing for the traditions of the land and the natural wealth that lay around and between their holdings. If it couldn’t be dug, drained, chopped, hunted, or eaten, he had no use for it. Though the venerable vines on their lands produced some of the finest grapes and wines in all of France, to Bardot of Verdun they were merely crops. And crops could be replanted. Never mind that some of the best bearing vines were more than two score years old and would take at least that long to replace …
The hall lamps were lighted above, tables were set in place, and only the head table was draped with linen, as was usual for the lighter evening meal. He didn’t notice, as he washed his hands and splashed his face with water from the basin that a boy brought him, that his silver wine cup and trencher were missing.
“Milord.” Sir Reynard met Griffin by his chair and cleared his throat nervously as he blocked the way. “I have been told you are needed in the old west lookout.”
“Can’t it wait?” he asked glancing toward his chair. “I’m ravenous.”
“It’s Demoiselle Julia, milord. She insists it is of the utmost importance.” Reynard winced at the annoyance that bloomed in his lord’s face.
“She does, does she?” Griffin glanced once more at his chair, deciding. “With her it’s always something urgent … or desperate … or expensive.”
“This way, milord.” Reynard started for the arched opening that led to the stairs, but Griffin grabbed him back.
“I know the way,” he growled, striding for the stairs.
What the hell kind of emergency a cook could be having in a little-used lookout tower? If this were a ruse of some sort, he was going to strangle her. He was already perilously close to it—just on general principles.
He’d spent the entire day out in the fields and vineyards and had purposefully missed dinner, intending to avoid the sight and sound of her. He had awakened that morning with a dream that recalled in stunning detail their brief encounter in Crossan’s forest. And he rose with her scent lingering alarmingly, in his head: pepper … cinnamon … cloves … a hint of smoke … bacon … yeasty bread … She was a whole damned dinner menu on the move. A portable feast. For the rest of the day he had been unable to get the unsettling impact of that potent blend out of his head.
When he reached the top landing, he paused a moment, looking down the narrow passage that led to the lookout. This had better be important.
Turning his wide shoulders so that they didn’t brush the sides of the passage, he headed for that aged door and used the rope handle to pull it open. Light flooded the darkened passage around him and he blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the brightness before he stepped into the sun-filled chamber.
As his vision cleared, there she was, standing on the balcony with the lowering sun behind her turning her hair to spun gold and the sky around her to a thousand shades of red. He tried to turn and stalk right back out the door, but his limbs were totally unimpressed by the panic rising in him and refused to obey.
“What the devil am I doing here?” he demanded. “Better yet, what are you doing here?”
But even as he spoke, his gaze slid to a linen-draped table on the balcony, laden with plate service and covered dishes. Behind her he could see pillows strewn on a stone bench. Silk pill
ows—his eyes widened in recognition—from his own chambers.
“You’re having dinner, Your Lordship,” she said, moving out of the light.
“I’m what?” His balking limbs managed to propel him forward enough for him to glimpse his own silver wine cup and trencher. “This is ridiculous—”
“It is not meant to be an assumption or imposition, milord,” she declared. The way her hands were clasped tightly together at her waist betrayed a disarming bit of anxiety. “It is meant to be a pleasure.” She waved to the mostly empty chamber. “Here you will have privacy and plenty of air to bear away any unwanted scents. You will be able to enjoy your food completely—aromas and all—for once. And I will serve you myself with as little intrusion as possible.”
He should have banished her from the hall entirely, that first day. He should have locked her in the damned pantry that entire first week, and let her out only to cook. He should have sent her straight back to the convent and resigned himself to a diet of frumenty for the rest of his benighted days.
But he hadn’t.
Now he should turn around and walk back down the stairs and demand to be fed in his hall, in his chair, as usual.
But he wouldn’t.
She was moving closer, swaying, her supple body moving.
God help him.
That glow was back in her eyes and that tingling was back in his fingers.
“Please, milord, come and sit.” When she reached for his hand he jerked back involuntarily. He could see she had to force herself to try again and, this time, let her succeed. “I believe you’ll enjoy the food we have prepared for—”
“My men—”
“Have been told you’ll be dining alone this evening.” She poured some of the rich, red wine into his cup and pressed it into his hand. “Sit, milord. You won’t be disappointed.”
Most likely.
If he survived.
Chapter Eighteen
Griffin looked around the mostly empty chamber. The floor had been scrubbed scrupulously clean; there wasn’t a trace of bird droppings or a spider web. Stacked against a near wall were several willow hampers, kettles, and crocks, and a set of poles for transporting them. Nearby was another small table laden with cloth-covered trays and bowls. He turned back to the table laid for him … trying to keep his wits about him … making himself think about what motives might lie behind this exceptional display.
