“Or one who overindulges in pleasures wrought by his own hand,” Julia responded tartly, gazing at his girth.
“Now, now, Francois.” Sophie wagged a finger. “You agreed to let Julia come and see your kitchens.”
“Because you said she was a cook. A
fine
cook.”
“So I am,” Julia declared, tucking her arms and raising her chin to a combative angle. “And a truly good cook never foregoes a chance to gain methods and recipes from another cook … even if he is arrogant and inhospitable.”
“Arrogant, am I?” Francois was on his feet in a flash. “Inhospitable?” It was the worst thing one could say about a cook. “We’ll see who’s a proper cook and who isn’t.”
He bustled around the kitchen, nudging the fire tenders awake and pulling a linen apron from a stack on shelves along one of the walls. He slapped a new apron and a freshly carved wooden spoon down onto the table before her with a burning challenge in his broad face.
“Let’s see what you can do.”
As Julia took stock of the huge larder and selected items necessary for the pastry she had in mind, Francois came along behind her … watching her and selecting ingredients himself, clearly intending to do some cooking, too. Sophie stationed herself at the table where Julia worked and Francois rousted one of his undercooks from a cot in the pantry to assist him. Lamps were lighted and soon the kitchen was humming with activity.
Four hours later the guards’ mouths were long past watering as they sat with their heads propped up on the tables, waiting for the verdict in this culinary match. The smells were heavenly … spiced crust, sweet custard filling, wined cherries and plums, sliced almonds, spices and sugar … beef roasted with garlic and pepper and served with a rich claret wine and mushroom sauce.
When the two dishes were placed on the table, side by side, each cook eyed the other’s creation with grudging respect. Julia sliced into her elegant cherry custard tart to a chorus of
ahhhs
and presented a dish of it to Francois. He produced a porcelain dish and served several slices of peppered beef with the sauce and mushrooms and handed it to Julia. Eyeing each other so as not to seem overeager, they sat down opposite each other at the same time and watched each other carefully as they simultaneously took a first bite.
Two sets of shoulders lowered, two pairs of eyes closed, and two sighs issued forth. Julia and the portly Francois opened their eyes and looked at each other with dawning respect.
“Magnificent beef, Monsieur Francois.” Being the guest, Julia went first. “It melts on the tongue. And the wine sauce … with both the tang of new wine and the depth of a fine rich claret. But the mushrooms … they are pure heaven … the very soul of the soil is in them. I’ve never tasted anything like them! The way they draw the other tastes together … make each flavor seem more intense and unique. You are a master of both spit and sauce, monsieur.” She rose and curtsied deeply.
He smiled with a satisfied curl to one side of his mouth, then he turned back to her offering.
“Those wretched ovens have never been so kind to
my
crusts. And this custard is light and creamy—perfectly set.” A high compliment indeed, for a fine and delicate custard was the universally accepted credential of a fine cook. “The balance of tartness and sweetness in the cherries is perfect … a whole bouquet blooms in the mouth upon first bite … and the heart soars upon the second.”
Sophie looked from Verdun’s opinionated cook to her new friend, grinning.
“I knew it. I just
knew
you were a real cook!”
Sir Gerard and Julia’s guards were offered generous helpings of both in compensation for the risk they took in escorting Julia to the kitchens. Francois, surprised and delighted to find another knowledgeable cook with brains enough to pick, broke out a cask of exceptional claret and insisted they sit down and share a bit of fine food and wine.
“I have to ask, Monsieur Francois,” Julia said as she pushed back from the table later, sighing with unexpected satisfaction. “What kind of mushrooms are those? I have never tasted the likes of them.”
“Not mere mushrooms, demoiselle.
Truffles.
A rare and exceptional sort of mushroom that grows in this region. A true delicacy.” He chuckled. “I confess … I knew if you were a true epicure, they would give me a secret advantage.”
“For such an enthralling sauce, I would gladly yield you that advantage any time you wish.” She wiggled her eyebrows and the cagey Francois laughed.
“But I have another question, monsieur,” she said after a few moments. “How on earth can there be two such remarkable and identical kitchens as the one here and the one at Grandaise? How did they come to be so alike in such bitterly opposed households?”
“What?” Francois choked in the middle of a drink of wine and lowered his cup to reveal ruby liquid dribbling down both sides of his mouth. “I can’t imagine what you mean, demoiselle. There is but one kitchen as grand as this”—he thrust his arms out to praise the culinary splendor of his kitchen—“in all of France.”
“Has no one ever told you? Have you never seen the—”
One of the potboys came running down the passage and burst into the kitchen, shouting, “ ’Is Lordship—’e’s comin’ !”
For an instant everyone froze, then Francois, Sophie, and Julia jumped to their feet all at once, and Sir Gerard and the guards weren’t far behind.
“There’s no time to run—they’ll hear us—we have to hide!” Sophie cried, looking wildly about for a safe haven.
“The larder!” Francois shouted in a whisper, shoving the women and frantic guards all toward the door to the main storerooms. Beyond was a stone chamber hung with strings of dried herbs, dried beans and condiments, and garlic; shelves loaded with boxes, jars, and bundles; and stacks of barrels, bags, and willow hampers. Julia and the others scattered, ducked, and crawled into whatever accessible niche they could find.
Julia slithered into an opening behind the main door, flattening herself against a set of shelves in the corner, just beyond the hinges. Through a crack around the heavy planks, she could see part of the kitchen and the main door leading from the hall. Shortly, the Count of Verdun burst through the doorway, clearly in a temper, and paused to scour the grand chamber with a glance. Sir Martin entered next and as they descended the stairs, the count demanded to know if his daughter had been in the kitchen that night.
“She’s not in her chambers nor the hall, nor the upper solar,” he declared. “Martin said she often visits the kitchen of an evening.”
“It’s true that Lady Sophie visits often, milord,” Francois’s voice was believably anxious. “But as to whether she was here this evening … I confess, I cannot say. I have been so concerned with the tallies and orders for food for the extra mouths I am now charged with feeding.” He moved toward the count and into Julia’s line of sight, wringing his hands. “Milord … I must have more help. I have the bakers running their ovens nearly day and night as it is. All of these extra mouths to feed … I must have more meat and beans and cheese of all kinds … more rice and pears and pepper and cinnamon and ale—and oil—I must surely have more olive oil—”
Julia bit her lip. Clever man, Francois. There was no faster way to get a nobleman out of a kitchen than to beg him for goods or money.
“Yes, yes …” The count put up both hands to ward him off. “You’ll have what you need. If my daughter appears, you are to report it to me immediately.”
“Of course, milord.”
Julia watched the count turn toward the stairs and then back. “What is that?” he demanded. She gasped and drew back from the edge of the door.
“What is what, milord?” Francois asked in tones a bit higher than usual.
“There, in those dishes.” The count turned toward the table where sat the remains of their cooking bout, and Julia edged back to the crack in the door. “Is that your beef with wine and mushrooms?” He leaned closer and sniffed. “And a tart?”
“Y-yes, milord.”
“What—were you having your own private feast?”
“No, milord. I was just … trying a new recipe or two … hoping to serve it to you when the Comte de Lombard arrives.”
The count looked alarmingly interested. He stuck a finger into the custard of the tart and then into his mouth. Impressed, he sat down on the very stool Julia had occupied moments earlier and demanded a spoon. He made quick, noisy work of both the remainder of the beef with “mushrooms” and of the cherry-custard tart.
Julia shifted for a better look and something fell onto the floor at her feet. Francois cast a look of alarm at the larder door. When the count looked up and demanded to know what was wrong, he cleared his throat and demonstrated once again the agility that had served him well at the helm of Verdun’s kitchens.
“I—I just realized … we may not have enough cherries to make that dish for the count’s entourage. Perhaps I should begin to scour the countryside for more, milord. It will be expensive … this being the end of the cherry season.”
“Money, money, money. It’s always ‘money’ with you, Francois.” The count shoved to his feet and was halfway up the steps before he made his decision. “I can’t afford to look miserly when I’m asking him to send men into battle on my behalf. Yes, dammit, scour the countryside for your cursed berries.”
And he stormed out.
Julia waited—they all waited—to be certain he wouldn’t return.
When the door swung open and light from Francois’s lamp brightened the inside of the larder, she looked down to see what had fallen by her feet. It was a book, a large, leather-bound volume covered with dust. It had been tucked away on the bottom shelf in the corner and her movements had dislodged it.
She picked it up as Francois moved farther into the larder, saying the count was gone, and she brushed away some of the dust. What sort of book would canny Francois have hidden away in his kitchen? Books were precious and fragile … more suited to a lord’s private chamber or solar.
She opened it. There she made out neat lettering on the parchment leaves: lists of ingredients followed by instructions. Recipes! As she turned page after page and neared the front of the book she stopped dead, staring at the elegantly illuminated word
Grandaise.
She turned her back to the rest of the larder and opened the front cover. There in elegant colored ink and gilt was a coat of arms bearing a tripartite shield decorated with grapes, a boar pig, and several strange little lumps that looked like coal. It was the coat of arms of Grandaise.
“Demoiselle Julia—”
She had a decision to make. Instinctively, she slipped the book up inside her apron and held it there with her folded arms as she turned.
“Here I am.” She waved as she slipped around the door and back out into the kitchen. When the others joined her, she pulled Sophie in front of her and headed straight for the steps, declaring that they both needed to get back to their chambers straightaway. With a quick wave to Francois in the kitchen, and a hurried hug for Sophie at the bottom of the stairs, she raced ahead of her guards up to her chamber. It was empty. She sagged with relief and asked her guards, who arrived shortly, to light her lamp from theirs.
After the door closed behind her and the bolt was thrown, she raised the wick on the lamp, drew the stool to the small table, and sat down before that curious volume. She ran her fingers over it, wiping away the dust of years, and then opened the heavy cover.
Grandaise. In the frontispiece of the binding was a chart depicting the lineages of the ancient estate, all the way down to the present count, Griffin de Grandaise. She studied the names and the dates, wondering how such a vital record came to be in Verdun’s larder. Then she opened the first pages and began to read a short history of Grandaise … as handed down by the estate’s noteworthy cooks and written down by the last and most beloved of those kitchen masters … Jean de Champagne … otherwise known as
Grand Jean.
* * *
Sophie reached her chamber undetected and took a deep breath of relief as she opened the door … then froze. There, in the middle of her chamber sat her father, with his arms crossed and his eyes as cold as January. A hand pulled her inside and closed the door behind her. She looked up to find herself in Sir Martin’s I-told-you-so grip.
“Where the devil have you been?” her father snapped like the tip of a lash.
“I was just … I went to the kitchens … and then out for some air …”
“The hell you did. We’ve been all over Verdun looking for you. From the ramparts to the kitchens to the gardens to the cellars. Where were you?”
She was in deep trouble. But she was also every bit as resourceful as her irascible father. She swallowed her trepidation and raised her chin.
“I was doing what I have repeatedly asked Sir Martin to do. I was investigating the truthfulness of your hostage’s identity and claims.” She folded her arms, mirroring her father’s judgmental pose. “And you know what I found? She is a cook. The Beast’s cook. He acquired her from the Convent of the Brides of Virtue to come and cook for him for one year. Before she could come, he had to swear to return her at the end of one year so that she may take religious vows. Thus … she is not only under the Beast’s protection … she is also under the protection of the Duke of Avalon.”
She unfolded her arms and stood tall, looking quite confident and self-contained.
“I already know all of that,” he said irritably. “Grandaise sent a demand for her release laying out those very claims. The idiot. As if I can’t figure out that
he
is the one who is really in trouble if she isn’t returned intact.”
“And what happens when he goes to the king … tells the king that you have abducted his cook and violated the truce?” Sophie demanded. “Unless you can point to a worse violation, the king may choose to believe him and punish you.”
“He can’t even prove the chit is here.”
“There is Bertrand, seigneur,” Sir Martin reminded him diplomatically. “He did not return with the girl as expected. Grandaise must have learned he was our spy and detained him.”
“There is one way to be sure he violates the truce,” Sophie said, dragging them back to her point. “A way to bring him to his knees before the king that will save you a dangerous and destructive battle.”
“Why would I want to avoid a battle?” her father snapped, flinging a hand at Martin. “That’s what I’m keeping him and his lot for … fighting.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Because it’s
costly
and
stupid
to fight when there are better,
less expensive
ways of handling things?”
“And what ways are those,
daughter?”
Her father reddened and gripped the arms of the chair, his patience ominously thin.
This was her moment, Sophie thought. She had to do this right.
“Tell the Beast he may have his cook back only if he marries her.”
Verdun’s face fell. “He’s supposed to wed
you.
What makes you think he would stoop to wed a—especially when she’s protected by—” A rush of anger erupted through him. “You’re doing this to get out of marrying him yourself!”
“Of course,” she said brazenly. “I don’t want to wed him any more than you want me to wed him. This is a perfect opportunity to keep me from having to marry him
and
to bring down the wrath and fury of both the king and a duke on his head. When he comes to get her … tell him he can have her … only if he marries her.”
“What makes you think he would do that—marry a mere cook?”
“She is from a convent and he has sworn to protect her. And from the way she talks, she has beguiled him as much as he has her. He cares for her.” Sophie watched the calculation in her father’s face and gauging how much more was needed to convince him. “Give him reason to believe she is in danger and he’ll marry her.”
A devious grin spread slowly over the count’s lean, aristocratic face.
“You’ve done well, my girl.” He rose and rubbed the velvet covering his chest with a self-congratulatory air. “The apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”
He strode to the door and turned back to find Martin only a step behind him.
“Stay here,” he ordered the knight. “Don’t let her out of this door or out of your sight. She’s a devious chit.” He gave a wicked chuckle. “She may be more valuable than I thought.”
The door closed and Martin stared at it in dismay. Then he heard a soft throat clearing behind him and wheeled to face her.
“Well, well, Sir Martin,” Sophie said, swaying toward him, loosening her hair. “By my father’s own command, it looks like you’ll be
watching
me tonight.”
Martin took a step backward and banged hard into the door.
“Now, Sophie …”
That same night, several miles away, Old Thibault de Roland sat in his shadow-shrouded hall glowering at the men who had crowded around his tables, gorged themselves on his wine and food, and then fallen into a drunken stupor. They reeked of soured sweat and oiled metal. Their garments were rough and dirty and some had rags wrapped around the disintegrating leather of their boots. But the swords at their sides glinted, blades bright from care and use. They were a filthy, hungry, dangerous barbarian horde, just waiting to be unleashed.
But tomorrow—he let his head drop back against the threadbare cushions of his chair—they would don his colors over their pathetic rags. His precious green and white. And for a few splendid hours they would rise above their pathetic lot to become the instrument of his revenge on the two houses that had risen to wealth and prominence over the bones of his ancestors.
He looked around the dimly lighted hall, recalling the days when the tapestries had been bright and the stone walls free of soot and years of neglect. He recalled the sound of music in the hall and the flirtatious looks of pretty women … of one particular woman …
Movement in the open doorway drew his attention and he sat straighter and called out, demanding to know who was there.
“A message, milord.” A meagerly garbed old man scurried forward, clutching a tattered cap, and casting anxious glances at the burly figures snoring over the tabletops. He stopped some feet from the baron. “From Sir Bertrand. He bids me say … they will move on the morrow.”
Old Thibault sagged back against his cushions, drawing a rattling breath into his wasted frame.
“Good.” He nodded, thinking that the boy was finally coming around … proving his worth … remembering his true and rightful allegiance. “Take him back this word from me,” he ordered the servant. “ ‘It is time to come home.’ ”