“Do not mistake the meaning or the uniqueness of this lesson,” she declared, stalking to two of the more fractious boys and grabbing them hard by the ears. As they howled, she yanked sharply upward. “I expect hard work, obedience, and loyalty. Otherwise, I can be a hard and difficult mistress.” She looked down at her captives. “Isn’t that right, boys?” She pinched a bit harder and they yelped agreement. “If anyone asks, you’ll be sure to tell them.” More agreement. “Let me hear you say I’m a terrible hard and ruthless mistress.”
“You’re a terrible hard and roofless mister!” the boys called out, scrambling up onto their knees to relieve the tension on their ears.
She released them with a satisfied smile.
“You bet I am.”
Late that night, at the heavily fortified keep of Verdun a cloaked rider arrived at the gates insisting he had a message for the count. The guards ferried him by lantern light up the winding stone stairs to the count’s quarters.
All was dark in the count’s bedchamber except for the flicker of a trio of costly beeswax candles. The lines of the count’s stately bed were barely visible at the outer reaches of the candles’ glow, but closer to the source, color bloomed. Parti-colored silk pillows were strewn on the chairs and stools, and a tufted wool panel from the Orient lay on the floor beneath the count’s slippered feet.
“Milord.” The messenger went down onto one knee before taking the chair the count offered.
“You could have chosen a better time to make your report.” Verdun glowered at his informant and waved a ringed hand. A cup of wine appeared.
“Supper was late, seigneur. Lord Griffin has brought home a new cook.”
“So I have heard.” Verdun sat forward. “Have you seen her?”
“Non.
But I hear she is young and”—he made a face—“I know she is not much of a cook. We had frumenty for dinner. And for supper.”
“So?” The count sat back and sipped his wine again.
“That is all, milord. Just frumenty.”
The count choked mid-sip and lowered his cup. “Grandaise was served pap for dinner
and
supper?” He chuckled. “He tries to pass his tart off as a cook and actually puts her in his kitchen. The man’s an idiot. What did he do?”
“He stormed out to the kitchens. Then he came back and ate it. Along with the rest of us. The entire garrison was up in arms—some talked of marching on the kitchen to demand a fighting man’s ration.”
The count was on the edge of his seat.
“And did they?”
“Non.
Sir Reynard caught wind of it and set the grumblers back on their heels.” The count’s hopes deflated visibly as his informant continued. “He said the new cook merely finds her seat in the saddle, that the food will improve.”
The count smiled vengefully.
“Don’t hold your breath waiting for that. She’s a whore, not a cook. I’ll wager she doesn’t know the first thing about running a kitchen.”
The informant considered both assertions and nodded.
“This is good. This ‘cook’ business has possibilities.” Verdun sat back with his intense ferret eyes darting back and forth as ideas materialized in his mind. He glanced at his spy. “Watch her, Bertrand de Roland, and report back. I want to know how she spends her days … and where she spends her nights.”
Before sunrise the next morning, Julia rousted the fuelers and fire tenders and lighted several lamps to begin the day’s work. As she headed into the larder to begin selecting ingredients, she caught a whiff of aged onions and rotting greens and stopped dead. It was a testament to the uncommon cleanliness of the kitchen that she hadn’t smelled such things until now.
Investigating, she pulled a forgotten pail of waste from behind a stack of large willow baskets. One of the potboys had thought to save himself steps and tucked it there instead of carrying it out to the offal cart. Averting her nose, she carried it out the side door to the dawn-lit yard and—
—screamed, dropped the pail, and lurched back … banging into the kitchen wall beside the door. A huge rounded snout, glossy eyes, and a fleshy, pinkish face closed in on her and her cry shriveled to a gurgle.
“Come, come,
ma chère.
Let
la demoiselle
be,” came a voice from the edge of her vision. “You see? She has more for you to eat.”
Julia swallowed her heart back into place and kicked the bucket away from her feet. The huge pig—she finally recognized the shape of the beast—abandoned her to follow the rolling repast and stick its snout into the middle of those stinky greens.
“Who are you? What are you doing here with that—that creature?”
“I am Jacques.” The smell of pigsty and the sight of ragged clothes on a lanky frame struck her in the same moment. He gestured to the walking barn that accompanied him. “This is my Fleur. We come each morning to take away the scraps and tops and peels.” He motioned to a small heap of waste on the ground where the offal cart should have stood. Julia sucked a breath. That pungent smell seemed to be coming from the man, not the pig.
“Well, take your pig back to the sty and keep it there,” she commanded.
“And ask the old cooks to bring their tossings to us?” He shook his head in dismay. “It is a long trip to the pens, demoiselle. Besides, my Fleur likes stretching her legs and greeting her friends here at the kitchens. Don’t you,
chère?”
He reached over to scratch the pig’s ears and she stopped munching long enough to lift her head and tilt it at him in what could only have been agreement.
“Her
friends?”
Julia stared at the amicable Jacques—who was clearly a few inches short of an ell—and at Fleur—who seemed to have found the very inches Jacques had lost.
A pair of potboys burst from the kitchen door carrying a second belated pail of kitchen offal. “Fleur!” they cried and launched themselves at the pig, before one spotted their mistress and grabbed the other back. They reddened as they followed Julia’s glower to the bucket they held.
“We … um … forgot a pail last night,” one said, shrinking back a step.
“Two,” she corrected, pointing at the one Fleur was emptying.
They blanched, looking at the stout spoon tucked into her belt.
“Fleur!” Two older kitchen girls came running up and sobered to a walk under her critical gaze. “How are you this morning, Demoiselle Fleur?” They greeted the pig with a respectful bob before they greeted Julia the same way.
Then a deep voice came from the corner of the kitchen, followed closely by a pair of tall boots and a pleasant, manly face.
“Demoiselle!” Sir Reynard waved as he approached. “Good morning.”
Julia wondered if the greeting was for her or the pig.
“I see you’ve met Fleur,” the courtly knight reached down and gave the pig’s ear a friendly scratch that it acknowledged with a grunt.
“I hardly know what to make of her,” she said, grateful to be able to summon that much diplomacy at this hour of the morning.
“Fleur, you see, is no ordinary pig,” Reynard said with a hint of the ironic to his genial face. “She is a finder of lost objects.” He looked to Jacques, who nodded with obvious pride.
“She is better than most dogs at tracking,” Jacques said. “When Solange’s little daughter wandered off—”
“Fleur followed the girl’s scent and led us to her,” Reynard finished for him, nodding. Then he chuckled at Julia’s dubious look. “We are not flamming you, Demoiselle Julia. She is truly an extraordinary pig.”
“Well, then,” Julia said, trying to reorient her thinking to accommodate one
extraordinary pig.
“I believe I can find something to feed a helpful knight.” She looked from Sir Reynard to Jacques with a bemused smile. “And the keeper of an extraordinary pig.”
Jacques accepted the food but declined to enter the kitchen, saying that he wasn’t much for being inside any building. But Sir Reynard sank onto a stool and drank some of the sweet, frothy ale she set out for him as she accepted the day’s deliveries: baskets of hot, crusty loaves from the bakers, meat from the butcher, and a number of fine, plump capons that were already plucked from the poulterer. She negotiated with the butcher for lamb to be served the next day, and then had to check the baskets of freshly picked onions, greens, turnips, and small carrots the gardeners hauled to the kitchen in a cart.
At Julia’s direction, Fran the Larderer began collecting and portioning out ingredients for the day’s dishes, and the recently arrived cooks and girls began to drain and rinse beans that had soaked overnight, clean and slice vegetables and greens, and prepare a dozen capons and several joints of beef for the spit.
Then she finally was able to turn to Sir Reynard with an apology for keeping him waiting, and set forth a warm, crusty loaf, sliced, salted butter, fruit preserves, and hard-boiled eggs.
“I came by to compliment you on your fine frumenty of yesterday,” Sir Reynard said between mouthfuls of food.
“Thank you, sir.” She flashed a smile, doubting that and wondering what he was really doing in the kitchens. “It is a simple dish, but nourishing and versatile. It can be spiced many ways and eaten any time of the day.”
“You’re not thinking of offering it to Lord Griffin again this morning, are you?” he asked, looking at her over the edge of his tankard of ale.
“And if I were?” she said raising her chin.
“Let’s just say that”—he measured his words carefully—“Lord Griffin is expecting something more
substantial.
And we’re all hoping you give it to him.”
“Who is ‘we’ ?” she demanded, propping her fists on her hips.
“His knights and his eighty-man garrison. His entire household. His tenants and villagers. Essentially, everyone who meets him in the course of a day or has dealings with him. We need him to be at his best. And he needs good food to be at his best.” He leaned forward across the table, staring into her eyes, and said quietly, “He faces several difficult challenges.”
His pleasant voice and disarming gaze tweaked her sense of the personal.
“Challenges. Such as … his upcoming marriage?”
Reynard froze for a moment, assessing the question and the questioner, then nodded. “There will no doubt be some ‘provocations’ before Verdun finally hands his daughter over to Lord Griffin. Verdun is a treacherous man.”
“This feud, Sir Reynard, how did it begin?” she asked earnestly.
“No one seems to know for certain. But the killing started when an early Comte de Grandaise tried to bar the lords of Verdun from hunting or taking from the forest. Verdun then laid claim to what had always been acknowledged as Grandaise land. Blood was shed, and has continued to be shed until this present generation. Lord Griffin’s grandfather was killed in a fierce battle when Lord Griffin was still a stripling. Then Lord Griffin’s younger brother was killed in the woods four years ago.”
“Sweet Heaven.” There had been killings. Of his closest kin. Small wonder His Lordship had no desire to celebrate his upcoming marriage.
“By Verdun’s son and heir, who was gravely wounded and also died. Other houses were recruited by alliances into the fray, and the king—fearing all-out war if the side-taking didn’t stop—vowed to end it.”
“By ordering His Lordship to wed the count of Verdun’s daughter.”
Sir Reynard nodded. “He believes their children will unite both houses. And well they may.” He shook his head and added under his breath, “If His Lordship lives long enough to produce any.”
“What is she like, his intended bride?”
“I have no earthly idea. She was sent to a convent for safekeeping, and was brought home recently. She’s fairly young.” He shrugged. She noticed that his shoulders were wide and that he had a pleasant masculine scent. Her eyes began to sparkle with interest in more than just his story. “That’s all we know. There isn’t any traffic between Grandaise and Verdun, and Lord Griffin doesn’t usually have neighboring lords in to dine.”
“He doesn’t practice hospitality?” She thought of his visit with Sir Reynard’s father, the Baron Crossan, where wine and good humor had flowed freely. “Why?”
“Could it be that my cooks are too busy gossiping to see to my food?” came an irritable voice from the kitchen door. She looked up to find His Lordship leaning with his arms crossed against the door frame.
Galvanized by the sight of him and suddenly aware that her face was only inches away from Sir Reynard’s—and her thoughts had been closer than that—she lurched back and blushed. All activity ceased as everyone from cook to potboy watched their lord stroll inside with his gaze fixed on their head cook.
“Sir Reynard came by to comment on yesterday’s menu … and I … invited him to break his fast here with us.” She looked around the silent kitchen and, with a glare borrowed from her employer, ordered her people back to work.
“Your choice of menus is one of the reasons I am here.” His prowl-like gait and cool smile were ominous enough to send Sir Reynard sliding off his stool. “The other reason is that I was looking for you, Reynard. I want a report on the forest patrols sent out last night.”
“Yes, milord. On my way.” He nodded to Julia and withdrew.
“I was just about to send some food up to the hall, milord,” she said.
“I’ll take mine here.” His Lordship settled onto the stool the knight had occupied and looked deliberately around the kitchen. “I want to see firsthand how you fare in my kitchens.”
“Well enough, milord. There really is no need for you to—”
“What are you preparing for dinner?” It was not a casual question.
“A bean pottage, Roast Capon with Jance Sauce, Roast Beef with Lamprey Sauce, Pasties Florentine, and Baked Apple Rissoles.” She folded her arms. “Does that meet with your approval?”
“It may. I’ll decide when I taste the final results.”
With a quiet huff of exasperation, she set out the same breakfast for him, then prepared baskets of food for the servers to carry up to the hall. Just before they departed, Axel and Greeve strode through the open kitchen door, fresh from their morning ablutions and hungry as wolves.
“Milord! What a surprise to see you here.” Greeve yanked Axel to a halt at the sight of their seigneur.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse,” Axel said, staring at the food spread on the table and ignoring the way Greeve tried to hold him back from it.
“Fortunately, you won’t have to.” Julia said with a smile.
In short order, they were drinking ale she had dipped from the barrel and were groaning with gratitude as she paused to pepper the eggs they peeled. They were so intent on their food that they didn’t notice the count’s face darkening.
“Don’t you two have men to train this morning?”
No sooner had they stuffed their eggs into their bread and exited than another strapping young knight appeared.
“Milord! I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Obviously.”
“But where else would one go to see the prettiest face in all of Grandaise?” the young knight declared, eyeing Julia with an admiration that brought more color to her already pink cheeks. “Bertrand de Roland. Head of His Lordship’s archers.” He made a courtly bow and was quickly invited to break his fast. As he watched her cut his bread, he complimented the previous day’s dinner and the wonderful smells coming from the hearths.
“Bertrand,” His Lordship said without looking up from the egg he was peeling, “do you have a score of men yet who can reliably hit a bull’s-eye?”
“Not yet. But we have at least thirty who can reliably hit the second ring.” He smiled as he accepted the partial loaf Julia had buttered for him.
“Then you have work to do,” His Lordship declared in tones that were clearly dismissive. The knight stilled and his face sobered.
“So I do.” He nodded briskly to Julia, and exited.
Julia was furious. The nerve of His Lordship … sitting there barking at every man who came through the door … a blessed dog in the manger!
She slammed down her bread knife and went back to work, assigning two of the more rambunctious kitchen boys to grind spices and several of the younger girls to mince vegetables and grate hard cheese. Then she busied herself measuring flour for dough and inspecting the hearths.
Albee the Fryer grumbled about having to change the grease in his skillets, and Old Mae the Saucer muttered that she’d been making Jance sauce since Moses was adrift in a basket and nobody had complained. But under their lord’s watchful eye, both did as they were bade and prepared for the next phase of the morning’s work.