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.”
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 mouth … 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.
Shortly, he was trudging down the lane with his back and arms straining to contain unwieldy boxes, bags, and bundles of spice. He had no choice but to act as a brute beast of burden; he didn’t intend to spend one moment longer than necessary in these dangerous precincts and he certainly wasn’t about to send his knights or men-at-arms back to retrieve her purchases. Axel trudged along beside him, equally burdened, but in perversely expansive spirits.
“Smell that?” The portly knight asked, shifting the bags and packages in his arms to thrust some part of a bag closer to Griffin’s nose before remembering. “Oh. Sorry, milord.” Little chastened, he rattled on: “It’s cloves. Troth, I do love cloves. She bought two whole pounds … says she always uses more in the autumn. In pork, too, she said. And—mercy—” He strained to get his nose to the side of a bag hanging at the edge of his burden and inhaled hungrily. “This must be the mace. You know, the smell of it always reminds me of those mace and anise wafers Old Jean used to make. Remember those, milord? Melted on your lips they did. Oh, and she got a new spice … something like cumin, only stronger Corraway. Carrenay. Anyway, it’s a marvel. All pungent and musty and with a bit of a vinegary bite. They say it’s great for cabbage and pottages of all sorts … and pork. I cannot wait to taste it on pork. Only imagine … tender, rosy meat dripping with juicy—”
“Axel!” Griffin roared at the top of his lungs, not caring any longer who might be watching. Another word and he was going to commit unholy murder.
“Yes, milord?” The knight’s eyes were as big as goose eggs.
“Shut the hell up.”
Julia arrived back at their camp dusty, exhausted, and thoroughly dispirited. Sister Regine rushed to meet her and pulled her back to the cart, where she pushed bags and packages aside to allow them to sit on the back.
“Ohhh, I knew I should have gone with you. What happened?” Regine patted and rubbed her white hands to restore warmth to them. “Sir Greeve came back with the men and His Lordship went storming down to the fair himself.” When Julia didn’t respond, she prompted: “You spent too much—was that it?” She groaned. “I warned you about that. Noblemen are notoriously close with their coin. If I learned anything from the reverend mother, I learned—”
“It’s not that.” Julia heaved a huge, shuddering sigh.
“What then?”
“I met a knight … at the fair … at the spice merchant’s stall.”
“You did? Well, that’s no reason for … what do you mean ‘met’ ?”
“I was buying spices and the knight came up and ordered the merchant to give me a good price and then bought me some sugared oranges.” She dragged the cloth bag from her gown and handed it to Regine, who untied the string and gasped.
“Oranges!” The sister stared at the morsels as if they were holy relics. “I haven’t seen these since I was a girl.” She exhaled pure awe. “Ohhh, Juuulia.”
“A
handsome
knight … he gave them to me just as His Lordship came charging up, bellowing like a baited bull. It seems the knight is a vassal of the Count of Verdun, whom His Lordship despises and apparently has fought in battle. Sir Greeve said their lands adjoin in several places and their families have been at it fang and claw for generations. A feud of some sort. Of all of the awful happenstance … the knight who was kind to me turns out to be His Lordship’s sworn enemy.”
“Terrible. Just terrible,” Regine commiserated while circling her finger above the oranges. “Would you mind if I …”
Julia shrugged permission.
“What if …” She couldn’t speak her fear aloud: What if His Lordship bellowed like that whenever a man took notice of her? He was always ordering Sir Axel and Sir Greeve away from her. What if he kept her bound to his hearths and pantry and she never got the chance to meet any unmarried men?
“Then, as Sir Greeve was bringing me back”—her spirits sagged even more—“he told me that His Lordship was just betrothed to the count of Verdun’s daughter, by order of the king himself.” Her shoulders rounded. “I thought it curious that Sir Axel and Sir Greeve had failed to mention the lady of Grandaise. I meant to ask specifically about it, but …” Her voice trailed off and Regine’s moaning was the only thing audible. She looked over to find the round-faced sister’s eyes closed and her face alight with joy transcendent.
“I had forgotten what they tasted like.” Regine hugged herself with happiness. “They’re so sweet, so tart … a work of heavenly splendor!”
Julia watched in dismay as Regine was transported to some outpost of Heaven by the taste of a sugared orange, while totally ignoring her humiliating experience in the market, His Lordship’s vile behavior toward the gallant knight who had flirted with her,
and
the tumultuous revelation that His Lordship had been forcibly betrothed to his enemy’s daughter.
At least it was tumultuous to Julia.
It took her a few moments of grappling with that fact to realize that her reaction to the news of his betrothal was every bit as vehement as her distress over being denied the attention of a potential husband. Why should she care who her olfactorily afflicted master married? She was traveling to his household to revitalize his kitchen and train him a new staff of cooks. Nothing more.
In point of fact, his preoccupation with his marriage and unwelcome bride would probably make her task that much easier. He would be gone a great deal at the time of the wedding, and it would probably take some time for his bride to settle in and begin to take charge of the household … all of which would divert scrutiny from her kitchens and allow her more opportunity to search for a husband of her own.
A husband. Marriage. Being someone’s wife. The notion seemed a bit depressing just now. Pledging her life to some moldering old knight with a thousand laurels and a yen to pour his hoary stories into little heads with ears like his … or a crafty merchant whose fortunes and girth had grown apace and who wanted a wellborn wife and a fine hearth tender, but could only afford one of them … was that what she had to look forward to?
Her maudlin thoughts were interrupted by His Lordship’s arrival in camp and the sound of his voice booming with ire.
“Where the devil is she?” she heard him shout.
She was going to have to face him sooner or later. Girding herself with as much unwomanly arrogance as she could summon, she slid from the end of the cart and trudged toward the center of camp.
“There you are!” he thundered, standing over the pile of parcels and bags dumped unceremoniously on the ground, his features bronzed with ire. “What in infernal blazes do you have to say for yourself?”
She drew her shoulders back and ignored the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Did we get the cinnamon for a livre a pound, or not?”
Astonished by her utter lack of contrition, he ranted and railed for some while. Sir Axel, Sir Greeve, Heureaux, and the others were wincing openly by the time he ran out of both wind and ire. But, insulated by a fog of distraction, she bore it all with remarkable equanimity and afterward nodded.
“Yes, yes. And did you remember to bring some meat for supper?”
He stared at her in outrage, threw up his arms, and stalked out of camp muttering things that were better left unheard.
She turned to Heureaux with a calm that owed more to numbness than serenity.
“I believe it’s time to think about an evening fire.”
The next morning, they rose early, struck camp, packed the cart and horses … and quickly realized they had too much baggage to carry.
A night’s rest and a bit of distance had greatly improved Julia’s outlook and she adroitly inserted herself into the situation … to insist that the precious spices be protected along the way from weather and the predations of bugs and itchy fingers. They needed a proper spice chest … or two or three … she declared. And a second cart to carry them.
It took the count some time to come around to her way of thinking.
“Let me see if I have this straight,” he declared, his voice constricted around an explosive core of emotion. “You badger me to let you buy spices, you squander my coin on things you don’t need, you break our backs lugging mountains of God-knows-what up that hill … and now you expect me to buy another cart to haul this worthless nonsense all the way to Bordeaux?”
She paused a moment to gauge her distance from him and reconnoiter possible escape routes.
“I know it may seem excessive, milord, but I can promise you … you’ll thank me when you’re home in front of your hearth with a cup of mulled wine in one hand and a well-spiced joint of pork in the other.”
“Don’t … don’t you dare …” Frustration choked off the rest and he raked his hands down his face.
Seizing the moment, she offered something of a defense.
“I did manage to strike some shrewd bargains.” She adopted a confident stance. “Even if I do say so.”
“Indeed.” Sir Axel tried valiantly to come to her aid. “You could have easily spent four times as much for the same things, milord.”