The Marriage Test

by Betina Krahn

  “That’s nothin’ new,” came a harrumph from another soldier. “That bit o’ forest’s cursed. Time and again, it’s run red with gore.”

  “It’s them devil dogs,” one of the serving women declared, glancing around the hall. “Thanks be … His Lordship don’t allow them filthy beasts to roam Grandaise, or to skulk about in the hall chewin’ on folks’ ankles.”

  Dogs, it seemed, suffered grave disrepute on Grandaise … which accounted for the absence of hounds in the hall and on the estate grounds in general. On her way back to the kitchens, to oversee the evening cleaning, she paused long enough to glance about the hall and recall her surprise that there were no rushes on the floor and no dogs running about to pick up the scraps and bones that fell from the tables.

  “Well?” Regine and the rest of the kitchen folk gathered around to hear the results of their most valiant culinary effort to date. “His Lordship … what did he think of our Oxtail Brewet?” The little nun’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. “Did he swoon with pleasure?”

  Julia tried heroically to ignore the way her face caught fire.

  “He was more than pleased. He removed the band from his nose and smelled it all and proclaimed it fit for the angels.” The others murmured excitedly and grinned at one another. “He wanted to know every ingredient in the Lorraine Pie. And the venison—that was when he spoke of feeding the angels.”

  “And the rissoles?” Old Albee looked at her with hope in his age-faded eyes. “What did he say about our cherry treats?”

  “He”—she flushed crimson—“couldn’t say enough about them. It wouldn’t surprise me if he requested them again, soon.”

  Smiles and congratulations broke out all around.

  “So, tell me. What really happened?” Regine demanded later, as the door of their chamber closed behind them and they settled, exhausted, onto their beds.

  Julia removed her slippers and began to rub her feet.

  “It was as I said. He thought the food was wonderful.”

  “And?”

  “And … it took a while for him to remove the band from his nose. When he finally did, I glimpsed the intensity he lives with day by day. You know … he smelled the rissoles and told me what was in them before I even took them out of the hamper.” She grew thoughtful and spoke her thoughts aloud. “What must it be like to be besieged by such powerful sensations? To perceive so many things, so strongly that they all mix into a great, oppressive slurry? To feel such a potent invasion on every breath that it is tempting at times not to breathe at all?” She shook her head. “It’s no wonder that he refuses to smell anything.”

  “Goodness.” Regine was clearly disturbed by Julia’s description. “I had no idea.” Then her gaze came back to the cherry stains that had seeped through and around the edges of Julia’s apron. “But, he liked the food.”

  “He loved it.”

  “He didn’t throw anything at you or knock anything over?”

  “Of course not.” Julia frowned and sat straighter.

  “Then how did you get rissole filling all over you?”

  Julia’s face flamed and glanced down at her gown. “Oh. Well. I-I was holding the tray of pastries when Sir Reynard and the others burst through the door with news about dogs in the forest. They startled me and I stumbled and fell right into that tray of sweets.” Abruptly, she tilted her head and launched into an altogether different subject. “You know, I wondered why I seldom saw hounds about the demesne. It always struck me as odd, considering how noblemen usually love to hunt. Some of the men tonight said that His Lordship does hunt, but with falcons rather than dogs.”

  Regine blinked at Julia’s abrupt change of topic.

  “I thought that was strange, too,” she finally said with a shrug. “And look at Fleur and her clan. People hand-feed them and talk to them and even pet them. Pigs seem to have replaced dogs here. How could such a thing have happened? I mean, hounds have fur and pigs have …”

  As she prepared for bed Julia listened with one ear to Regine’s dissertation on the unprecedented reverence of pigs on Grandaise. But her thoughts kept returning to His Lordship … the way the breeze tugged at his dark hair … the way his jaw muscles flexed as he ate … the trill of expectation that swept her as their eyes met … the pleasure that suffused her when he claimed her lips.

  Her time with him had been intensely personal and pleasurable. She had intended it to be. She had wanted to see his eyes light, his features soften, and his broad shoulders lose their defensiveness and rigidity. She wanted to see passion and pleasure in his face and to know that she’d had some part in the making of it.

  Now, as she slipped into her narrow bed, she felt a lingering glow within her own heart and realized that she had never felt such warmth and such a sense of belonging as when he wrapped his arms around her and caressed her lips with—

  She froze mid-thought, mid-breath.

  His pleasure … his embrace … his kisses …

  Heaven help her … she had searched for a path from his stomach to his well-guarded heart, but what she had found was a path to her own stubborn desires! It struck her with a horrifying clarity of vision that the giving of pleasure brought a unique and beguiling pleasure of its own. And such pleasure, once experienced, begat a growing need for more of the same. Already she had been thinking of more dinners, more embraces, more kisses …

  She sat up in the dark, her heart beating frantically.

  Madness.

  What about her sane and sensible plan to provide herself with a future? What about courting and wooing the men of his hall and the visitors to his table until one of them agreed to marry her? Desperately, she tried to banish the memory of the heat and possession of his kisses. But the more she tried to sweep it aside, the more vivid and emphatic it became in her mind.

  She wanted him with every particle of her being, even knowing he was destined to live his life with another. And the worst of it was that she couldn’t imagine wanting another man—any other man—the way she wanted him. How was she supposed to look for a husband—someone to share her bed and board and the balance of her days—knowing that His Lordship already occupied the choicest parts of her heart?

  * * *

  At daybreak, the next morning, his Lordship rode out with Sir Reynard and a party of men to inspect the damage firsthand and take steps to make sure the wholesale slaughter of game in his forest did not happen again. The hall was unusually quiet as Julia led her servers up the steps with bread and eggs and crisp fried bacon to break the fast of the remainder of the garrison.

  As she strolled along the undraped tables, greeting the men of the garrison and chatting with the men and women of the household, Bertrand de Roland entered, spotted her, and headed straight for her.

  “The very face I had hoped to see.” He gave her a courtly nod. “I have something for you, demoiselle.”

  “Oh?” She watched with interest as he reached into a small leather pouch that dangled from the side of his belt.

  “Here they are.” He produced three perfect white mushrooms, displaying them on his open hand. “What do you think?”

  “They’re lovely, Sir Bertrand.” Her eyes widened. “Where on earth did you find them?”

  “In the woods—not far away.” His smile broadened. “I saw them and thought of rice and mushroom stuffing … a cheese and mushroom tart … sausage-filled mushrooms …” He placed a hand over his heart as if to slow it. “There are hundreds, thousands of them, and this is the perfect week for harvesting. They are just beginning to open.” He slid the mushrooms into her hand. “I am due out on patrol shortly, but I had to come and tell you about them.”

  She closed her eyes and smelled their earthy, woodlike fragrance, already thinking of a dozen dishes that would tempt the palate and try the will. Opening her eyes, she grabbed him by the sleeve.

  “Please, Sir Bertrand. You have to show me where they grow before you leave on patrol. I simply must have these for His Lordship’s dinner.�
��

  That was how she, Regine, and a trio of the kitchen girls—cooks in training—came to be traipsing into the woods west of the vineyards that morning. They carried willow baskets, linen napkins for protecting the precious cargo, and small knives for harvesting. The student cooks listened eagerly on the way to Julia’s explanation of the humors and culinary properties of mushrooms and of how to tell an edible from a poison one. Sir Bertrand, who escorted them on foot while leading his horse, added bits of lore regarding the woods they had entered.

  “The southern part of this wood was where the count’s brother was killed.” He waved down the gasps and jitters of anxiety. “But the mushrooms are at the northern edge, and the Count of Verdun’s holdings are well to the west. You’re in no danger.” He gave Julia a roguish smile. “Not with me along.”

  Julia smiled back, thinking that his eyes shone with a peculiar glint just then. But that fleeting thought escaped as they came to the first patches of mushrooms growing in the dark, woody soil at the foot of a stand of venerable trees. She instructed the girls how to pick so as not to damage future production, and left a pair of them to collect those mushrooms while she and Regine and a third girl headed farther into the forest with Sir Bertrand.

  Soon they came to a stretch of forest floor that seemed to be paved with small white cobblestones. It was a veritable sea of mushrooms! Laughing with surprise and delight, she set Regine and the other kitchen girl to harvesting, and hurried forward to see how far the growing bed extended. It went on and on through the huge old trees whose leaves provided the rich compost that nourished the edible buttons. She followed, fascinated by the way it sometimes trailed off and then reappeared around the next bend of the narrow path.

  For a time she heard Sir Bertrand behind her, but he was scarcely able to keep up with her eager pace. With her thoughts occupied with ways of drying and storing the mushrooms for use during the rest of the year, she paid no attention to the rustle of leaves behind her or the snap of a small branch nearby. After a time, she stooped to pick several additional specimens and examine them for evidence of the red pigment that would mark them as poisonous.

  Happily, there was none. She began to imagine great strings of mushrooms drying in the sun outside the kitchen, and didn’t notice a trio of stealthy figures moving up behind her.

  Hands clamped tightly over her mouth and she flailed as she was yanked and fell backward onto her rear. Men—two, young and powerful—pinned her to the ground, one stifling her screams and grappling furiously with her arms while the other knelt on her legs to keep them from thrashing.

  “She’s stronger than she looks,” one of them muttered breathlessly as they worked to contain and bind her.

  “She works as a cook,” came a familiar voice that caused her to cease struggling and look up. Towering above her was Sir Bertrand, holding several loops of rope. “Yes,” he declared to her unspoken charge, “I’m afraid I’ve led you into something of a trap. But you won’t be harmed, demoiselle. And you will see … it will all work out for the best.”

  She condemned him to the farthest reached of perdition, though not a word of it reached his ears. She thrashed her head trying to free her mouth to scream, but they snatched a bit of linen from her gathering basket and stuffed it into her mouth. The thirsty cloth wicked up the moisture in her mouth and throat, rendering her incapable of anything more than a parched croak.

  They used Sir Bertrand’s ropes to bind her hands and feet, then hoisted her across the saddle of a horse, face down. She kicked and thrashed, trying to relieve the pressure on her ribs, struggling to draw breath. Then someone mounted the horse behind her and it took off as if it were launched from a bow. The constant bouncing and jostling pounded the breath from her and—robbed of air—she felt everything going slowly darker until she lost consciousness.

  It was some time before Sister Regine topped her basket of mushrooms and stood up to arch backward over her hands and relieve the strain on her muscles. She asked the others if they had seen Julia and, hearing that they hadn’t, went to look for her. Some distance farther down the path, she found Julia’s basket, empty and discarded, beside a badly trampled patch of mushrooms. She called repeatedly for her friend and charge, but there was no response. Alarm filled her and she rushed back to the others.

  “I can’t find Julia. She seems to have dropped her basket and …” She held it up and discovered that it had been crushed on one side. The ominous implication of that damage caused her face to drain of color. “Something has happened to her.” She whirled around, peering through the trees in every direction in an attempt to locate their knightly escort. “Quickly—where is Sir Bertrand?”

  That same evening, Griffin, Reynard, and their men rode back through the stone and iron gates of Grandaise with grim expressions. They had spent most of the daylight riding the borders of the estate, questioning cottagers and tenants, and inspecting the sites in the forest where game had been slain and left to rot.

  “It looked like a damned slaughterhouse,” Reynard said.

  “Worse.” Griffin turned to the guardsman Heureaux, who rode on his left. “I want you to choose some men and take them out to the sites of the kills tomorrow morning. Whatever is left … bury it.”

  The burly guardsman nodded and rode straight to the garrison barracks to draft several men.

  Griffin watched him go, then instead of riding to the stables and handing off his mount, he headed for the front doors of his hall. As onerous as the day’s duty had been, it at least had kept him from dwelling on that debacle with Julia last night. He’d made a fool of himself … sniffing and pawing her like some damned animal. Then he’d done exactly what he’d vowed never to do; he’d kissed her and set hands to her as if she were his for the taking.

  The memory of her standing there with her lips kiss swollen and her apron and gown covered with squashed cherry rissoles sent a shudder of humiliation through him whenever he thought of it … which he had done roughly once each hour since it happened. He deserved every sly and suspicious look his men had tossed his way. He was sworn to protect and defend her, after all, from the very predations he’d subjected her to last night.

  It was no good arguing that she didn’t mind or that she’d participated willingly, even eagerly, in that lapse of sanity and judgment. He was a nobleman who’d won knightly spurs and was bound by a strict code of honor. He was responsible for her virtue … had promised to safeguard, not seduce, her.

  “Milord!” Arnaud the Steward came rushing down the steps to meet him, his silver chain of office bobbing on his chest. The little nun, Sister Regine, was at his heels. One look at her reddened eyes and strained countenance and Griffin knew there was trouble.

  “She’s gone, milord,” Arnaud declared, wringing his age-thinned hands.

  “Taken. She’s been taken,” Sister Regine corrected, then addressed Griffin directly. “Abducted, milord. Stolen. You’re sworn to protect her—you have to find her and get her back!”

  “Abducted?” He slid from his saddle and bounded up the steps to seize Sister Regine’s wringing hands. “When? How?”

  “We went out to collect mushrooms,” Regine declared in a tearful voice. “Sir Bertrand said he’d found some in the forest and she insisted on going to see them and pick some for your dinner.”

  “The forest? Which direction?”

  “That way.” She pointed to the west and tension wrenched tighter in a band around his chest. “Sir Bertrand took several of us. We were all together at first, but she wanted to see how large a crop it was and wandered off with him.”

  “Where is Bertrand now?”

  “Gone, too, milord.” Axel came hurrying out of the hall in time to answer that question. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

  “We thought he had just ridden off on patrol like he said he was supposed to do,” Sister Regine said, looking a bit sick at the admission. “But when we got back to the house, Sir Greeve said he hadn’t appeared for duty. Perhaps he was take
n, too.”

  “Bertrand?” Griffin straightened. “He would never have allowed her to be taken. Or himself, for that matter. Not without blood being shed.”

  “I did see him give her mushrooms in the hall this morning, seigneur,” Axel said reluctantly, producing the damaged basket from behind him. “And there were hoofprints around the place where they found this.”

  She was gone. Then it struck him: “gone” did not necessarily mean “abducted.” She had ambitions of her own. And Bertrand had shown interest …

  “Sister, has Sir Bertrand been visiting the kitchens?” he demanded. She looked a bit surprised, then quickly denied that possibility.

  “You’ve forbidden the men to visit, milord, and they’ve obeyed,” she said. “Sir Bertrand included. Only kitchen folk venture into the kitchens now.”

  Assuming that was true—Lord, he was doubting the word of nuns now!—it only meant that Bertrand was not likely to have run off with her. Thin comfort. There were probably at least sixty others in his garrison who were equally besotted … with either her or her food … it was hard to tell which.

  He scowled, thought for a moment, then took Sister Regine by the elbow and ushered her to the path that led to the western gate. “Show me where he took you.” He called over his shoulder to Reynard: “Follow us with fresh horses, and roust a score of men to help with the search.”

  As they hurried along the path—him striding along with his mail clinking dully and her trotting alongside trying to hold her hem up and her veil down—he glanced at her anxious face and felt the damnedest urge to reassure them both.

  “I’ll find her, Sister,” he declared from between clenched jaws. “And if she’s been abducted, I’ll do whatever it takes to get her back.”

  Griffin studied the hoofprints and the destroyed mushrooms at the side of the path, reading in those signs confirmation of his fears. There had been a struggle. He sent Sister Regine back up the path, out of sight, telling her to keep the others back until he called for them.