“No, I couldn’t!” Griffin declared, his eyes a little wild and his dark hair standing out like a lion’s mane. “I could never have spent even two times as much! I’ve never spent so much coin in all my life!”
The man wanted to eat like a king without spending any coin? She was seized by a defiant impulse that very nearly proved disastrous.
“Well, you can hardly hold me responsible for emptying your entire purse, milord. You negotiated the terms of your agreement with the abbess, yourself.”
Now would be a good time to run, she thought, backing up.
“Damnation!” he roared. His eyes bulged. His fists clenched. His face turned an alarming shade of purple. For a moment she wondered if he might fly apart from the pressure building inside him. Out of pure desperation, he stalked over to the fire pit, seized the stones the men had set around it to contain the flames, and began to hurl them one by one down the hill and into the fields below. Each sizeable stone carried with it some of his anger and frustration, so that by the time they were gone, he was once again solidly in the realm of reason.
“Axel. Greeve,” he called sharply, fishing inside his tunic for a small leather pouch. “Take this coin and find some wooden spice boxes down there.” As those two hurried off to do his bidding, he called for Heureaux and two others to take another bit of coin to the local livery and purchase a second, slightly larger cart. “And have it here within the hour!”
That same morning, in a rented house near the heart of Paris, Sir Martin de Gies and his two companions presented both themselves and the news of their encounter to their lord as he broke his fast. In the light coming through the open windows of the upper hall, Bardot, Comte de Verdun, sat in the great carved chair reserved for the master and honored guests of the rambling house, and gripped its carved wooden arms as he listened.
“I was told he left Paris a week ago.” Verdun glared at his knights, reminding them that they were the very ones who had brought him that news.
“He did, seigneur,” de Gies assured him. “My men followed him on the road north for nearly a day. He must have circled back.”
Verdun’s restless gaze caught the subtle imbalance of the knight’s bearing and knew that such uneven weighting in a man’s stance generally came from the pressure of something he carried inside. Something that should come out.
“And what was he doing at this ‘fair’ ?” he asked.
“Buying spices. Lots of spices, seigneur.”
“Spices? What for?”
“For a woman, seigneur.” De Gies braced ever so subtly. “A young woman. Whom he called his ‘cook.’ ”
Verdun broke into a wry laugh and sat forward in his chair. “You say that as if you have doubts, de Gies. Tell me, why would a man—even a man like the Beast of Grandaise—be buying spices for a woman who
isn’t
his cook?”
“I cannot say, seigneur. But this woman—I have never seen a cook who looked like that.” De Gies turned to his comrades, who murmured agreement. “Golden red hair. Fair skin. Clear eyes. A sweet, maiden form. When I spoke with her, he came charging up and took possession of her as if he owned her body and soul. She is most certainly his, seigneur. But I cannot believe she is his
cook.”
Verdun thought on the implications of that and came inescapably to the same conclusion de Gies had reached. A nobleman did not buy costly spices for comely young women unless she was his sister, his wife, or …
“He’s taken a mistress.” Verdun shot to his feet. The reason for his knights’ reluctance to tell him was now all too clear. “With his marriage to my daughter a few months away, the bastard has taken a mistress!” He ground his fist angrily into his other palm. “Bound to my Sophie by royal decree, he drags home a harlot to lie in the bed he will soon share with her.” His face hardened. “The pox-eaten cur … mocking my daughter’s gentle goodness and purity with the indulgence of his beastly appetites! I cannot give my very own flesh and blood to that degenerate.”
“But, milord”—de Gies lowered his voice and glanced anxiously at the thin walls of their rented accommodations—“the king himself has decreed—”
“The
king
does not have to hand his only daughter over to a slavering beast in three months!” Verdun roared, stalking back to his trusted First Knight. Treason or not, there were limits to what a man should be expected to yield to his sovereign. His eyes flickered over an as yet unfinished mental tableau.
“The king’s precious ‘peace’ will not be bought with my innocent flesh and blood,” he said in implacable tones. “I have to find a way to get Grandaise to violate the king’s truce.”
Traveling, Julia quickly learned, consisted mostly of being rattled bone from joint in the rear of a cramped cart. The “cramped” part was her own doing, but the rest was simply the laborious process required in traversing broad distances. Except for occasional views of breathtaking scenery and the occasional stop near a nobleman’s home to secure passage through his lands, it was the same hour after hour and day after day. It was deadly boring for a young woman used to constant and productive activity. Not even the nightly challenge of finding a way to make rabbit or the occasional bartered poultry more interesting was especially taxing, now that they had spices to vary the taste.
She began to think of the tasks that lay ahead and decided to make the fullest use of her time. When they stopped at the end of the second day out of Paris, she climbed up into the larger cart, located the sizeable mortar and pestle she had purchased and spices for grinding, and stowed them in her smaller cart.
The next day she made a seat for herself on the cart bed, positioned herself around the mortar and pestle, and began to season the stone by grinding some basic spices. Her first task was to replicate a “black spice” she used frequently in sauces and as a rub for roasting meat, which contained four broadly enjoyed ingredients: round pepper, long pepper, cloves, and nutmeg.
When they stopped in the hot midday sun for a stretch of their limbs and a bit of water, Axel wandered over to see what she had been doing all morning. When she told him, his eyes lighted and he asked if he might have a look. When she lifted the cloth covering her mortar, he inhaled the pungent smell, sighed, and ambled away rubbing his stomach.
That afternoon, he kept dropping back to ride near the women’s cart. Periodically, he could be seen lifting his nose into the air and closing his eyes in concentration. Intrigued, Greeve dropped back to investigate and was soon riding beside him with his own nose hoisted Heavenward. Heureaux rode up to learn what was happening and stayed to sniff the air, too. Two more of his men abandoned their places to come and trail the cart with their noses quivering.
Griffin turned around, saw his men trailing the cart like hounds on a scent, and came charging back to find out what they were doing.
“She’s grinding spices, milord,” Axel told him with a dreamy look.
“Pepper and”—Greeve sniffed the air again—“cloves and something else.”
“Grinding spices? Here?” Griffin filled his lungs with mercifully unsmelled air. “Get back to your posts.”
When they rode off, he drew alongside the cart and peered over the parcels stacked along the sides. Julia of Childress sat on the bed of the cart with the mortar between her knees, wielding the pestle with forceful and rhythmic precision. The sight shocked him somehow. The sight of her legs wrapped around the bowl of the mortar … the intensity with which she wielded the pestle … the fact that he was probably going to consume those spices she was grinding between her …
“Dammit, woman,” he growled, startling her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’ve decided not to waste the days I spend bouncing around in this cart. I intend to use this time more productively.” When she looked up with eyes wide and utterly innocent, he had to scramble for a plausible objection.
“The wind is carrying those spices for miles. Put them away until we reach Grandaise.”
“Really, milord, I’m being quite careful. None of the savor is being lost, I promise you.” She slid the stone bowl off her gown and scrambled up onto her knees on the bundles stacked along the side. “Here”—she held up the heavy mortar with a look of expectation—“smell for yourself.”
Julia realized her mistake the instant the words were out of her mouth, and her gaze went inescapably to the dark band bridging his nose. She groaned silently. Now would be a perfect time for one of those great cinnamon-nesting beasts to make an appearance and swoop down and …
“Forgive me, milord.” She lowered the mortar and cradled it in her arms. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“That is the last bit of grinding you will do on this journey.” He jabbed a finger at the mortar, straining visibly to contain his anger. “The rest will wait until you reach Grandaise, where you can keep such unsightly tasks out of sight.” He reined off and rode hard past the head of the column and out of view.
Julia set the mortar down on the cart floor and sank onto her bottom beside it, staring at the half-ground peppercorns, cloves, and nutmeg in dismay.
“You do have a knack for annoying His Lordship.” Regine blew her nose for the tenth time. “But he’ll come around once you start cooking for him.”
“What makes you think he’ll ever trust me to feed him?”
“Well, he didn’t strangle you when you spent every coin in his purse. That’s a start.” She reached for Julia’s hand. “Haven’t you heard it said: ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’ ?”
“Why would I want to reach his heart?” she said in rising alarm.
Regine softened with a smile.
“Have your forgotten your lessons so quickly, Julia? When our Lord was on earth He made it very clear: The most important part of a man is his heart. When a man gives his heart, the rest of him always follows.” She patted Julia’s hand. “If you cook, you’ll reach his heart, and the respect you seek will follow.”
It was meant to comfort her, Julia knew, but the guilty truth of it was, she wanted a good bit more than just the count’s respect. She wanted his appreciation. No, his amazement. His adoration. His
awe.
She wanted to awaken his palate and astound his senses with her food and make him giddy with delight. She wanted him to take such pleasure in the taste and smell of her food that he would proclaim her skill from the rooftops. She wanted him to be so proud of his kitchens that he invited all of his neighbors—the whole countryside—to come and sample his wonderful food. More to the point, she wanted him to make him repent of every doubt and misgiving he had ever harbored toward her.
She picked up a grain of the spice she had chosen to begin grinding. Black spice. Comprised mostly of pepper. His favorite.
Perhaps she hadn’t forgotten her lessons entirely.
For the rest of the day, the count’s men took turns riding downwind of Julia’s cart and breathing in the peppery aroma from the spice mixture she was making. That evening His Lordship returned after a long absence and directed them to camp in a spot he had selected near a stream. Sir Axel and Sir Greeve informed her that His Lordship had secured permission to pass the night there from an old friend of his family, a local baron who controlled the roads and provided both security and sustenance for travelers. The birds they secured from the baron’s cottagers were rubbed generously with the combination of spices they had smelled all afternoon and were roasted to a turn over well-placed spits. The results were excellent, even by Julia’s standards.
But the count sat off to the side by himself and added nothing to the heaps of praise and groans of satisfaction aimed her way. She refused to show her disappointment as she watched him from her seat on a stone by the fire. But after a while she decided to approach him directly on his opinion of the food.
Just as she started toward him, he rose and strode off into the gathering darkness. She stood on the edge of the camp, her arms folded, watching him escape into a small wood nestled alongside the stream where they camped. Sir Greeve joined her and followed her gaze to his lord’s disappearing form.
“Where does he go at night?” she asked, only half aware she spoke aloud.
Greeve shook his head and cleared the campfire smoke from his throat.
“Away for a bit of solitude, perhaps. Who can say?”
Before her better sense could dissuade her, she headed after him.
“Where are you going?” Greeve asked, alarmed equally by her direction and determination. “Ohhh, no.” He reached out, but quickly thought better of setting hands to her and jerked them back. “Not good. Not good at all.”
Running helped her close some of the distance between them, but he still disappeared into the trees well ahead of her. The woods were pitch black, at first, and no air stirred under the dense canopy. The result was a stillness so profound that the trees around her seemed to be holding their breath. She closed her eyes, hoping to hasten their adjustment, and listened.
The telling shuffle of leaves and snap of twigs betrayed his position. He traveled carefully and steadily, with no attempt to disguise his movements. When she opened her eyes, she was able to detect fingers of silver-blue moonlight piercing the leaf cover and began to pick her way along.
The underbrush always seemed to thin in the direction she was drawn and she realized he was following a trail of some sort. Soon the sounds of his passage merged with the sounds of running water. The stream … they were some distance upstream from their camp. She halted, listening, but couldn’t tell if he was still moving or not. Her heart seemed to beat in her throat as she decided to continue along the path. She had come this far …
The silver-blue glow of moonlight bloomed ahead of her, through the trees. The air began to stir again; light branches swayed gently and leaves rustled with an almost human
shh-h-h-h.
Then she spotted him on some rock ledge that jutted over the edge of the stream, standing perfectly still with his head back, staring up into the night sky. As she watched, he raked a hand down his face and turned into the breeze, letting it wash over his face and ruffle his hair. When his face turned toward her, she saw that he had taken the band from his nose.
Was this what he did each night when he left camp? He came to the forest to free his sense of smell and bathe it in nature’s fresh and gentle scents?
Keeping to the shadows of the trees, she lifted her own face to the breeze and closed her eyes, hoping to catch whatever scents he might be experiencing. She was able to pick out the scents of moist wood and damp earth, the must of the leaves on the forest floor, and a tang of fragrant herbs growing between the woods and the stream … wild onion, tansy, butterwort. Was there still more?
Then his face lowered and it appeared that he focused intently on something just upstream, at the edge of the trees. She held her breath waiting. Something was there, watching him even as he watched it. Tension crept up her neck as she scoured the brush. Movement caught her eye.
A pair of dark, luminous eyes and pale ears became visible. A deer, little more than a fawn, stood with its nose up, trying to take his scent. He was downwind, just as she was downwind from both of them, and the animal remained wary.
The count continued motionless, patient, unthreatening, and the fawn finally took a step from the safety of the trees. Again its nose quivered for confirmation, and again the breeze carried away his scent. The animal approached cautiously, sniffing, and then halted a yard from him, looking him over. It froze as he slowly raised a hand.
He stood for what seemed an eternity with his arm outstretched, waiting for the animal to overcome its instinctive caution. Finally it came close enough to discern what was in his hand. But in so doing, it took his scent and darted back toward the safety of the trees. When he remained motionless, the fawn’s hunger and curiosity provided grew greater than its fear of danger.
She watched in amazement as the deer came close enough to take something he offered and skittered back to eat it. For the next few moments, the man and the deer engaged in a dance of wariness and pleasure as the fawn satisfied its curiosity about him and took the treats he offered.
Wanting a closer look, Julia crept slowly closer, keeping to the cover of the trees. Soon she had a clearer view of his face as he stood in the moonlight. It was relaxed, almost peaceful. She was so absorbed in his expression that she hardly noticed the fawn withdrawing and springing for the trees. The count whirled and visually scoured the line of trees where she stood.
The wind had changed, she realized, shrinking partway behind a tree.
“Come out,” he ordered angrily,
“Julia of Childress!”