“We have to be prepared to fight,” he told his men, “with or without Crossan’s men and the king’s permission. I must send a message to Verdun, demanding that he return Julia.” He gave them a rueful smile. “Which of you feels like pulling an ogre’s beard?”
The two longest days of Julia’s life passed as she waited, isolated in her prison chamber. Conditions slowly improved; they brought her a new mattress and blankets and at her request, a scrub brush and a pail of water and some vinegar. She gathered the old rushes and tossed them out the window, scrubbed the stone floor, and then swept the cobwebs from the room with the cloths they provided. Having done all she could to improve her surroundings, she was reduced to pacing and thinking about Sir Bertrand’s betrayal and her capture, and then to reciting prayers and recipes and Proverbs and whatever else came to mind. She asked for a priest to hear her confession, hoping to be able to persuade the priest to intercede for her in the human plane as well as the heavenly one. But she was told she would have to wait until he returned from blessing the grapevines, which might take several days.
The nights were the worst. Lying there in the dark, feeling the strangeness of the place and the animosity that seemed to emanate from the very walls, she sought comfort in the memories of Grandaise and of its enigmatic master. One thought led to another and before she knew it, she was reliving his kisses, the feel of his strong arms around her, and the pleasure of watching him consume her food and revel in the scents and tastes she had prepared specially for him.
But the pleasures of those dreams always gave way to destructive images of Grandaise in flames and the men of the garrison lying sprawled on a battlefield, and she awakened with guilt settling on her chest like a hundredweight of iron.
She rose that third morning to another empty day, feeling tired and dispirited and worrying about what was happening at Grandaise. Was Sir Bertrand back in the hall, back at His Lordship’s table, plying his duplicitous comradely? As she splashed water on her face, she heard voices outside the door and suddenly the planking panel burst open to reveal the guards tussling with a flurry of hair and silk.
“Let me go, you brutes! How dare you lay hands on me? I could have you drawn and quartered!”
It was a young woman at the center of what could only be called a storm of hair, bashing the startled and anxious guards with her fists.
“Let me go! I have a right to go wherever I please!” Clearly, the guards disagreed. Desperate now, she stiffened and summoned her most potent threat. “I’ll tell my father you touched me—that you fondled me—that you tried to force me—”
They jerked their hands from her as if she scalded them and she scuttled back into the chamber, glaring furiously at them.
“Fine.” She wrenched her disarranged gown back into place and brushed her wildly tangled hair back out of her face with exaggerated dignity. “Now close the door. Unless you want your prisoner to escape.”
The door slammed shut and the maid smoothed her rumpled blue silk as she turned; her cheeks were rosy from the exertion of trying to break
into
Julia’s prison.
“Can you believe that? The wretches wouldn’t let me in!”
“Why on earth would you want to get in?” Julia asked.
The girl halted in the midst of taming her hair and looked her up and down.
“I figured I should have a look at you. Seeing as how we’re fellow prisoners.” She folded her arms. “And you’re bedding my future husband.”
Julia’s jaw went slack as she stared at the lovely young woman who had invaded her prison. After a moment she recovered enough to say: “You’re the count’s daughter?”
“I have a name,” the girl declared defiantly. “Sophie Marie. Everybody seems to forget that.” She stalked a bit closer to Julia. “Here, I’m just the count’s daughter, the count’s ‘issue,’ or the count’s spawn … depending on who is talking.” She stalked still closer. “But I’m
Sophie.
Sophie of Verdun.”
“Well, Sophie of Verdun, I’m Julia of Childress.” She squared her shoulders. “And I’ve never bedded anybody, much less your future husband.”
Sophie studied her skeptically.
“That’s not what my father says. He says you fornicate with the Beast regularly. Constantly. Incessantly.”
“There is no ‘fornicating’ at Grandaise. Believe me. Least of all with your future—what do you mean:
the Beast?”
“The Beast of Grandaise. The count. He’s a raging, ravenous beast.”
“He is not.”
“Of course he is. That’s why they call him the Beast of Grandaise.”
“He is
not
a beast.” Julia planted her fists at her waist. “He’s a good man. An honorable and noble man. He’s handsome and strong and capable and generous and considerate and honest—”
“How handsome?”
Julia blinked at the interruption.
“Very handsome.”
“Of course, you’d say that,” Sophie said with a huff. “You’re bedding him.”
“I am
not.”
Julia folded her arms irritably. “He’s tall—quite tall—and has broad shoulders and a noble carriage. His dark hair is silky and his eyes are an unusual golden color. He has a strong jaw and chin, but his features are nobly cut.”
“Well, if he’s so handsome, why do they call him ‘the Beast’ ?”
“I have no idea,” Julia said. “I didn’t know he was called ‘the Beast.’ ”
“Well, I won’t marry him,” Sophie insisted. “I’d rather go back to the convent.”
“You had a calling to the religious life?” Julia recalled Reynard saying that Verdun’s daughter had recently come home from a convent.
“Me? A nun?” Sophie fairly choked on an involuntary laugh. “I hated the convent. All of that prayer and penitence … always ‘forgive us’ this and ’cleanse our sins’ that. When did we ever have a chance to get besmirched with sin in the first place?” She headed for the narrow bed and sat down forcefully on one end. “Not that things are much better here.
“When I found out what my father planned for me, I hoped that I could get somebody to bed and corrupt me so he couldn’t marry me off.” She gave a defiant huff. “I’ve tried Sir Martin and then every knight in the garrison … not one of the cowards will lay so much as a finger on me. They’re all scared witless of my father. And
he
behaves as if I’m a bother to have around … he’s constantly sending me to my chambers.” She looked around Julia’s chamber and gave a sigh of disappointment. “It seems I’ve just traded one prison for another. And I have yet another prison waiting at Grandaise.”
Silence descended as Julia studied the young woman and felt a kinship with her desire to be granted a personhood, an identity, a life of her own.
“You know, don’t you, that your marriage was decreed by the king himself?”
“Yes, I know.” Sophie clasped her hands between her knees, looking dejected. “This stupid feud … no one even remembers how it started. All of that fighting and hurting and even killing … I don’t see how disposing of one reluctant virgin will somehow make everything right.”
There were probably all kinds of arguments to be made in favor of the peace-through-marriage approach to diplomacy, but just now, sacrificing Sophie’s virtue and freedom and forcing His Lordship to make babies on someone who was terrified of him made no sense to Julia. She settled across from Sophie on a stool.
“You know, I came from a convent, too.”
“You did?” Sophie looked up. “How did you fall into the Beast’s clutches?”
Julia gave her a censuring look.
“Contrary to what your father believes, I am
not
the count’s mistress. I was brought from the Convent of the Brides of Virtue to cook for His Lordship.” When Sophie looked askance at her, she raised her right hand. “It’s true—I swear it. His Lordship has a condition that renders most ordinary food unpalatable to him. His men stumbled upon our convent, ate some of my food, and carried word of it to him. When he was in Paris not long ago, he traveled to our convent and hired me from the abbess for a term of one year. She sent one of the sisters along—Sister Regine—to chaperone me, so that I can take vows when I return to the convent.”
“You want to take religious vows?” Sophie was clearly horrified.
“No, no … I don’t. That was why I agreed to come in the first place. I hoped to get out of going back to the convent by finding someone willing to marry me.”
“And how have you done?” Sophie studied her. “Found any possibilities?”
Julia thought of the dismal prospect of trying to win a husband under His Lordship’s nose. Assuming, of course, that she ever made it back to Grandaise.
“No. His Lordship has taken a vow to ‘preserve’ me and answers to the duke of Avalon for both my safety and my purity. So, he has ordered the knights and men of the garrison to stay away from the kitchen and keeps a hawk’s eye on me … to make certain my ‘gifts to God’ aren’t sullied under his roof.”
Sophie digested that for a moment, then shook her head in disbelief.
“If a woman can’t get ravished under the Beast’s roof, where
can
she get ravished?”
Julia couldn’t help laughing and liking Verdun’s salty little daughter.
“You’re a handful, Sophie Marie,” she said. “It’s a pity you’re not in charge of things at Verdun.”
Sophie laughed … a sweet, throaty sound that made Julia feel sorry for Verdun’s abstemious knights.
“Well, give me a little time.” The girl’s eyes twinkled. “After all, I’ve been here less than a month.”
With grim thoroughness Griffin set the forges blazing and the smiths and arrow makers to working around the clock. Then he threw himself into completing a newly devised complex of defenses for the vineyards. While his men worked to erect the temporary fortifications and dig the covered trenches intended to protect the vines from horsemen bearing torches, he had his herdsmen secure the flocks and herds in defensible locations and he worked on gathering as many of his people as possible inside the walls of Grandaise.
As preparations proceeded, he sent a message to his neighbor to the south, the Baron Thibault de Roland, informing him of his grandson’s injuries and vowing to see Bertrand well cared for during his recovery. Old Thibault responded via an aged-looking messenger, thanking Griffin for his concern and pledging the services of Roland’s fighting men if or when it came to blows with Verdun.
Griffin tried to remember how many men Old Thibault was said to keep. From what he and Axel and Greeve could recall, it wasn’t many; the old baron didn’t have funds to maintain a proper garrison. Griffin would have to rely solely on Crossan for aid in that regard. He sent his thanks to the old baron all the same.
There was no response to the message Griffin had sent to Verdun, demanding Julia’s return and declaring her to be under the protection of the bishop of Rheims and the duke of Avalon. With each day that passed, the sense of urgency and tension rose in the hall, and Julia’s wonderful food was not there to assuage them.
Fortunately, the lessons Julia had imparted in the short time she had been there had not fallen entirely on fallow minds. Most of the new practices she brought to the kitchen continued, with a little help from Sister Regine. The nun’s stubborn hopefulness regarding the return of their head cook set an example for the kitchen staff. By the fourth day, they were looking to her for direction as well as encouragement. She, in turn, looked to Griffin for guidance.
“What shall we do, Your Lordship?”
“The best you can, Sister,” was his terse response.
That night they had frumenty for supper.
Griffin hardly noticed. The last thing he needed to think about right now was food. Especially Julia’s food.
Every idle moment allowed her to rise into his thoughts dragging a whole feast of both worries and remembered pleasures with her, so he strove to not allow a single one. He planned and discussed and ordered and rode and oversaw … wielding a hammer as they erected wooden extensions in place atop the walls and personally deciding on the quarters for the families relocated inside the modest fortifications. He dragged his steward around to check on supplies in the barns, granaries, wood bins, and coal piles. He had his men go to the river to fill barrels with water for the kitchen cistern, and found himself remembering the way Julia had waded in the stream north of Paris. He dismounted straightaway and began dipping buckets of water himself.
But at night when he fell exhausted across his empty and silent bed, there was nothing to distract him, and the last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was her face, flushed with pleasure, warm and inviting. Painful thoughts of what must be happening to her at Verdun’s hands rose and he focused his dimming awareness on the sensations of food and woman and warmth she had brought to him each time he had smelled her. And kissed her. And caressed her.
He would get her back, he vowed as he lost consciousness.
Whatever it took.
“But I think she may really
be
a cook,” Sophie said to Sir Martin as she trotted to keep up with him across the bustling side yard of Verdun’s great redoubt. “She talks about food constantly and can recite recipes until she puts you to sleep. I doubt ‘mistresses’ bother to set such things to memory.”
“How would you know what mistresses do or don’t do? Stay away from her, Sophie.” Sir Martin halted to glare at her and punch a finger against the tip of her nose. “Keep this meddlesome member of yours out of her chamber. I catch you in there again and I’ll have to report it to your father.”
“And what do you think he would do about it?” Sophie jammed her fists at her waist. “Marry me off to some hideous beast?” Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “Oh, wait—he’s already doing that.”
“Don’t try his patience, Sophie. Or mine. Heaven help me, I’ve tried to keep news of your activities among the knights from him. He thinks you’re as pure as the driven snow.”
“Well, thanks to you, I am.” When he gave her a dark look, she amended it. “All right … maybe slightly sooty, top-of-the-roof snow … but I’m still
snow.”
She strode after him. She hated the way he assessed her with those warm brown eyes of his and then glanced coolly away and spoke to her as if she were a child.
“If you’re so diligent about keeping him informed, don’t you think it would behoove you to learn whether it’s true, what she says about being under the Beast’s protection … and about how he is answerable to that duke of something?”
“It’s not your business, Sophie.”
“Well, you should at least help me find out if she’s really the Beast’s cook.”
He halted again and scowled at her.
“What are you up to?”
“I just want to know if she’s telling the truth … about the cooking. If she is, then she’s probably truthful about other things.”
“What other things?” He scowled, trying to imagine what might have passed between the two before he discovered Sophie in their hostage’s chamber yesterday.
“Woman things. You wouldn’t understand.” She raised her chin. “So are you going to take her down to the kitchens to see if she can cook, or not?”
“Absolutely not. She’s to stay as far away from the kitchens as possible.” He shook a finger in her face. “And
you
—you’re to stay away from
her!”
Late that night, a pair of wary guardsmen under the direction of a nervous young knight escorted Julia of Childress from her chamber, through the darkened hall and corridors, to the kitchens of Verdun. Sophie, who had both seduced and coerced Sir Gerard into helping her, hurried along before them, scouting the way to be certain it was clear. When they finally entered the kitchen Julia paused on the steps, staring in amazement at the massive chamber.
It looked exactly like the kitchen at Grandaise. There were eight sides, five of which were anchored by huge hearths, a high ceiling, and windows with louvers for ventilation overhead. In the center was a now familiar arrangement of poles studded with pegs to hold hanging pots and utensils. The poles were surrounded by a score of sturdy oak and maple work tables. How on earth could there be such identical kitchens in such adamantly opposed houses?
Julia allowed Sophie to pull her down the few steps toward the banked and slumbering hearths. In the center of the kitchen, at one of the work tables, sat a white-clad figure perusing a wax tally tablet and making marks in columns. He looked up with a frown, which he quickly transferred from Sophie to Julia.
“This is the cook I told you about,” Sophie declared. “Julia of Childress.”
The head cook leaned back from his work and jammed his fists at his ample waist, looking over her trim figure. “She must not taste much of her own cooking,” he said testily. “You can’t trust a cook who doesn’t eat.”