Julia and Regine escorted her to the chapel, even as Griffin and Crossan escorted Sir Martin. Father Dominic met them at the chapel door, where marriage vows were always said. On the broad stone step Sir Martin took Sophie’s hands in his and looked at her with all of the turmoil and love in his heart. She gazed up at him with more joy and adoration than any one person should be able to hold.
Julia wanted to tell them it would be all right, that things would work out for them as they had for her and Griffin. But she knew there was no guarantee that the couple could convince her father to accept them. If he didn’t, where would that leave them? And what revenge would Verdun exact upon Grandaise for taking his daughter in and helping her to wed someone against his wishes?
It might be madness, Griffin and Julia both thought as they stood together, her arm in his. But if it was, it was a very fine madness.
Halfway through the vows a low rumbling sound began that seeped in around and underneath the edges of Griffin’s awareness to make him glance toward the main gates, the upper parts of which were visible from the front of the chapel. As the promises and assurances of the vows were stated and repeated—“honor and obey … love and cherish … for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part”—the sound became audible and through the gathering there were numerous glances toward the gates.
“Faster, Father, if you please,” Griffin declared, looking around at his men’s faces and realizing that each one was having the same thought.
Verdun.
The priest did speak a bit more quickly, but was still barely through with the giving of the rings when the sound of many horses burst through the gates and the horses and riders themselves followed close behind. A galvanic shock flashed through Griffin and his men at the realization that the sentries hadn’t moved to close the gates and the invaders were inside, filling the front court and probing the estate’s weaknesses from the
inside.
The men began to run for weapons and shout “to the walls.” Those who had blades drew them fast; metal sang as it raked scabbards.
Griffin had drawn his blade and now thrust Julia behind him as he realized that the main force had turned and was headed straight for the chapel. Then he realized why the sentries had been confused and why the gates hadn’t been closed; at the front of that invading force rode none other than Sir Reynard de Crossan, wearing Grandaise’s own blue and green colors.
Sir Reynard spotted the blades bristling among his comrades and reined up, staring in dismay at them and at the people assembled at the front of the chapel.
“Milord!” Sir Reynard called, and when Griffin raised a hand of greeting and called out his name, he dismounted into a crowd of greatly relieved knights and men-at-arms. The first to reach him and give him a burly hug of welcome was his own father, the Baron Crossan. Axel and Greeve were next and shortly after them, a number of others sheathed their weapons to clasp his arm and demand to know if he survived the pleasures of Paris. Reynard worked his way toward Griffin, who stood near the chapel doors with Julia now at his side.
“Ho, milord!” Reynard called as he approached and clasped Griffin’s extended arm with his. “What is this? I was given to believe that you had already said vows some days ago.”
“Yes,” came a booming voice from the rear of the throng. “Tell us, milord Grandaise, just what is going on here?”
A score of men on horseback were arrayed behind the speaker, an older, barrel-chested man in elegantly crafted mail and an elaborately tooled helmet. On the sleeveless midnight blue tunic he wore over his armor, there was a coat of arms Griffin had never seen before.
“A wedding,” Griffin answered with a questioning glance at Reynard and then a look at the men who accompanied this demanding guest. That was when he noticed that among the dark blue tabards, there were a dozen wearing white and purple with accents of gold. The royal colors. King’s men. And near the rear, there was one tabard that bore the dreaded red and white of Verdun.
“Your Grace.” Sir Reynard strode back toward the mounted nobleman, and swept a hand toward Griffin. “May I present my lord Griffin, Comte de Grandaise.” Then he turned to Griffin. “The duke of Avalon, my lord. Sent by King Philip himself to investigate the recent troubles.”
Griffin felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Everything in his middle seemed to slide toward his knees. Here in the middle of what would surely be a controversial wedding … the king’s own emissary arrives … and it turns out to be the very man to whom he was already answerable for a reluctant but nevertheless punishable breach of his word.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” Griffin pulled Julia forward with him, where he bowed and she curtsied. “It has been some time since we met.”
“I see we have arrived in the midst of a wedding. How very appropriate.” The duke dismounted and stretched his back for a moment before coming to reach for Julia’s hand. “Since it is news of
a wedding
that has brought me here in the first place.”
“Your Grace, I believe when you hear what we have to say—” Griffin began but was cut off by a motion of the duke’s hand.
“Later, Grandaise. I believe I have interrupted this good couple’s sacred moment long enough.” He smiled benevolently at the bride’s pale face and the groom’s controlled countenance. “There will be time for our business later.”
He placed Julia’s hand on his arm and proceeded toward the chapel doors where the bride and groom waited anxiously for the completion of their vows. He flicked a glance at the red-and-white tabard Sir Martin wore, then looked back over his shoulder at the lone red-and-white tabard in his party.
“Sir Thomas—it would seem we have one of your comrades here!”
As the knight dismounted and hurried forward, Sir Martin went to meet him with a look of relief and pleasure. “Thomas? Is that you?”
The knights of Verdun clasped arms and thumped each other on the back.
“What the devil’s going on, Martin?” He looked around and spotted Sophie at the chapel door. His face drained as he realized the implication of Martin’s and her proximity to that door and to the priest stationed before it. “Don’t tell me you’re—”
“Yes, I am,” Sir Martin said, suddenly sober and communicating the seriousness of the situation to his friend and comrade with looks, not words. “It must be done. And I ask that you stand with me.”
Indecision flitted across Sir Thomas’s face, but after a moment he stepped back a pace and nodded, supporting his commander’s chosen course. He could hardly do otherwise, here in the den of their enemy. As they made their way to the doors of the chapel and Sophie’s side, the duke—who had watched intently their cryptic exchange—turned to the couple.
“And who are we to give praise to God for joining in blessed matrimony this day?” he asked.
“Martin de Gies, First Knight of Verdun.” Sir Martin bowed stiffly.
“And I am Sophie Marie of Verdun, daughter of Bardot, the Comte de Verdun.” Sophie lifted her chin and produced a dazzling smile. “If you don’t mind, Your Grace, we were just about to have our vows and future blessed.”
Sophie pulled Sir Martin around to face the flustered Father Dominic, who managed to speak a quick but nonetheless heartfelt blessing. In that short interval the identities of the bride and groom and the implications of their wedding—here, at Grandaise—had bloomed in the duke’s agile and innately political mind. As soon as Sir Martin and Sophie exchanged the customary “kiss of peace,” the duke turned to Griffin with eyes as cold as winter ice.
“What in hell are you up to, Grandaise?” His anger was palpable. “If you would keep your title, your lands, and the head on your shoulders … you will explain yourself to me. And your story had better be damned good.”
The duke strode into the hall of Grandaise ahead of that mixed party, and immediately called for the doors to be closed to those not of knightly standing. Julia hurried along beside Griffin, wishing she could just escape to her kitchen and throw herself into preparing the meal that in the space of one day had already traversed an arc from “pleasant supper” to “wedding banquet” to possibly a “last meal on Grandaise.” But she knew her testimony might be critical to making the duke understand what had happened, and began to prepare herself for a spate of hostile and accusing—
The duke stopped in the middle of the hall and turned to look at her.
“You are the ‘Julia,’ are you not? The demoiselle at the center of this vexation?” Using the excuse of his office, he gave her a thorough looking over as she nodded. “My son still speaks of the hedgehog you made for him.”
“I-It was a pleasure to watch him enjoy it, Your Grace,” Julia said, with a half curtsy and a helpless glance at Griffin.
The duke saw the way she looked at the man he had come to confront and grew more stern. “It is claimed that the Comte de Verdun abducted you and that in order to get you back unharmed, the count was required to wed you. Did you hear Verdun make such a demand?”
“No, Your Grace,” she said with an apologetic look at Griffin. “I was not privy to the negotiations that resulted in my marriage and my freedom.”
“Who told you that you had to wed Grandaise?” the duke continued.
“His Lordship.”
“Of course he did … to shame my lord Verdun … by wedding his mistress instead of milord’s daughter right there at milord’s gate!” Sir Thomas charged, bursting to the front of that group of knights.
“Either you were not there,
boy,”
Baron Crossan shouted, lunging through the crowd and caught in the nick of time by his son and Sir Greeve, “or you are a damnable liar! I saw and heard it all. Verdun called out his priest and his swordsman and told Grandaise to choose between the two for the demoiselle. He could marry her or watch her receive the last rites.”
“That’s a lie! The count would never murder a woman in cold blood!” Sir Thomas raged. “If Lord Bardot were here—”
“He would face a wall of steel for his treatment of Lady Julia,” Axel shouted, reaching for the hilt of his blade and igniting a cascade of similar motions. Griffin grabbed Axel’s and Crossan’s arms to prevent them from drawing their blades just as Sir Martin grabbed his friend’s arm and demanded, “Think, man! For God’s sake!”
The hall was suddenly a tinderbox of charges, countercharges, and blades just waiting to be unleashed. The duke stood in the center of that narrowly avoided melee, seeing firsthand the tensions he had come to quell and realizing that to reach the truth here, he would have to employ something considerably more facile and effective than the hammer of royal authority. Luckily he had lived long enough to know there was more than one way to get people to talk.
“Lady Julia,” he said with calculated calm. “This kitchen Reynard has rattled on about for days … I’ve a yen to see it. Be so kind as to show it to me.”
“O-Of course, Your Grace.” She looked up at Griffin with widened eyes. He frowned at the duke, clearly suspicious of this sudden change in strategy, but then nodded. “The kitchen is this way.”
“The rest of you”—the duke gestured irritably to the assembly as he exited—“try not to
impale
each other while I’m gone.”
With no little anxiety, Julia opened the upper kitchen door and escorted the duke onto the landing that provided a splendid view of the grandly proportioned chamber. She pointed out the specialized hearths, the ovens, the larder and doors and rope-operated lifts to the scullery. The hearths were glowing, the aisles were full of potboys and hall servers doubling as porters, and the work tables were ringed with women and young girls chopping, grating, and rolling. The intense activity and production were being shepherded by an apple-cheeked nun in full habit … who looked up and waved at them.
“This is my chaperone, Sister Regine,” Julia introduced her when the duke reached the bottom of the stairs. Regine curtsied and bade the duke welcome without so much as a stumble. Then she clapped her hands and told everyone to stop gawking and return to their work … and miracle of miracles, they did.
Julia led him by the hearths, explaining some of the improvements that made Grand Jean’s kitchen such a joy to work in, and then shared with him the menu for the evening’s meal … which now would be augmented by sweetmeats, wafers, and tarts in celebration of Lady Sophie and Sir Martin’s wedding.
“This wedding today …” the duke mused, snitching a slice of fennel bulb from the table where greens were being prepared for the pot. “Why was the count of Verdun’s only daughter being wedded to Verdun’s First Knight in Grandaise’s chapel?”
“That’s a bit of a story, Your Grace,” she said, watching the way the duke munched and swallowed and looked about for more.
“I’m all ears,” he said, snatching a number of almonds.
Julia led him to the bench just outside the door and shooed the duty-dodging potboys back inside. He waved her to a seat beside him and she began.
“It started when I was abducted and taken to Verdun.”
“Were you hurt in any way?”
“Only my pride. Though being bound hand and foot wasn’t particularly pleasant. Anyway, the count had me locked up in a tower room and Lady Sophie sneaked in to my prison to see me. Feeling like fellow prisoners, we quickly became friends. She told me how much she hated the idea of marrying Lord Griffin—whom she believed to be a raging beast of some kind. I told her how wrong she was about him … and how handsome and strong and honorable he was. She apparently got the notion that I had fallen under his spell.” She looked toward the door. “Milord duke, are you thirsty? We have just brought up some excellent wine from the cellar.”
“So, when Lord Griffin brought a force of men to demand my freedom,” she continued as the duke sipped his wine, “Sophie suggested to her father that the price of my freedom should be that Lord Griffin would marry me. It served her purposes, since she wanted to escape marrying him, and she believed it served mine. Your Grace, would you mind testing the cheese fritters? The first batch has just come out of the fryer.”
The duke alternately blew on and munched on his golden lumps of savory cheese and herb dough.
“Of course I can’t say I wasn’t pleased in some way. His Lordship is a deeply honorable man … fair-minded and generous and very manly.” She smiled at that. “And as to violating his arrangement with the convent … he tried valiantly to protect me and keep my ‘gifts to God’ intact. But—flawed and willful creature that I am—I was never meant for religious vows. I didn’t want to be a nun and Reverend Mother knew it. She wanted to keep me there as the convent’s cook because my food made for harmony among the sisters and maids. Good food will do that … make for good feelings and good relations. Sister Boniface used to say that there aren’t many problems that can’t be solved over a cup of wine and a fine roast joint of meat. How about trying some of my baked buttered wortes and minces in vinegar, Your Grace? This is a new recipe …”
The duke ate and listened and nodded, making encouraging “umhmm” sounds. She told him about Sophie’s flight from her father’s house and about Sir Martin’s daring appearance that morning. She confessed that she and Sophie had put Griffin in something of a corner, making him agree to protect his enemy’s daughter against her father. But, the count was behaving monstrously in trying to provoke Griffin and to marry his only remaining child off to a giant dumpling.
“The main course is Chicken Ambrogino with Dried Fruit. Would you like some almond rice with that, too?”
When the serving began in the hall, the duke suggested that she bring Lady Sophie back with her, so that he might have a word with her in private.
Sophie was surprisingly shy, having never set eyes on a nobleman of such rank before. Julia brought her a cup of wine, and she warmed and began to answer the duke’s questions.
“I told my father that if Lord Griffin wanted his cook back—I knew by then that she was his cook and not his mistress—that he should have to wed her. Later, when she sent for truffles and that book of recipes, I seized the chance to escape and asked for sanctuary here. I mean, can you imagine a lifetime of sleeping with one eye open, in constant fear that your husband might roll over and suffocate you? And Sir Martin is the perfect knight. My father hardly deserves to have such a strong and capable right arm.”
“Your father has no son to inherit, does he?” the duke mused.
“That’s why my father keeps trying to marry me off to some wealthy nobleman. So he can protect our lands from”—she looked around her—“from Grandaise. But Julia is my dear friend and the Beast isn’t nearly as beastly as my father seemed to think.” A new thought caused her genuine distress: “I only hope my father doesn’t try to kill Martin when he learns he married me.”
The duke asked Sophie to send him Sir Martin when she returned to the hall. It proved to be a difficult interview for Martin de Gies, who struggled with his loyalty to both his lord and the truth. In the end, he confessed to the duke that his lord had indeed coerced Grandaise to wed Julia under threat of violence … though the beheading threat was meant just as a coercive ploy.
“Damned dangerous ploy,” the duke declared irritably. “Tell me, de Gies … why did you come to Grandaise alone to reclaim Lady Sophie?”
That was difficult for Martin to explain without exposing Sophie’s scandalous behavior. He was able to say that he knew Sophie was impetuous and that her father was already furious with her intractable attitude. He hoped to convince Grandaise to cooperate and to return her to Verdun before the count realized she was missing. But time dragged on and when confronted with the demand that he wed Sophie, who would not leave otherwise, he felt he had no choice. Matters were growing worse by the day. He believed if he didn’t get her home straightaway, there would be bloodshed between the houses.
Looking back, he could see that he hadn’t showed the wisest of judgment.
“Well, now you have a chance to redeem your judgment,” the duke declared testily. “You must refrain from making Lady Sophie your wife in earnest. If the marriage may be annulled, the situation may yet be saved.”
Sir Martin took the suggestion as the command it was, and nodded manfully. But as he walked back to the hall he looked like a man who had just wrestled a badger and lost.
Next Baron Crossan and the duke shared a full cup of wine as the baron related what he had seen and heard before and since his arrival. “Verdun’s a treacherous old goat. I was there, I saw it all. He tried to make it look like Lord Griffin was the one who broke the truce, but it was him all along. Thank Heaven our wise king has seen the falseness of his nature and sent someone to search out the truth. Say, are you going to eat that fritter?”
Lastly, the duke called for Griffin to join him on the bench beside the kitchen door. They shared almond cakes with cherry sauce, hot spiced nuts, stuffed dates and figs, and wafers dipped in blackberry confit … while the duke quizzed him on the details of the two weddings and his abysmal failure as a guardian of young females.
“In wedding the cook you vowed to protect,” the duke declared, “you have broken your word and insulted both church and state.”
Griffin nodded grimly. “The fault is entirely mine, Your Grace, for trusting that Verdun would deal with me honorably and abide by the truce. For not keeping Julia under lock and key for the balance of the year. And for not having the strength of will to keep her at bay once the vows were spoken. I truly intended to seek an annulment and allow her to return to the convent.” He propped his elbows on his knees and stared off into a memory. “I lasted all of a week. Once she started cooking … Sweet Jesus, what that woman can do with a truffle. A man doesn’t stand a chance.”
After a bit more wine, the duke and Lord Griffin sauntered around the great hall to the main doors. They heard raised voices in what sounded like shouting and rushed inside to find the voices were raised in song, not conflict. At the head table sat Sir Martin and Sophie, bound together with a garland of flowers, enduring rounds of ill-sung bridal songs with nervous grace.
All around the hall, faces were wine warmed and merry, and even the contests and wagers between knights, which often grew contentious, had a genial tone to them. The duke strolled through the hall, watching and listening. Over and over, he heard comments about the fritters, the chicken ambrogino, the almond cakes, and even the buttered wortes and minces.
A fleeting recall of a comment Lady Julia made left him scratching his head and trying to call it back again. Something about food and … relatives … or music … or something. He sighed. He’d remember it in the morning. He quit the impromptu wedding feast to trudge up the stairs to the lord’s chamber and fall asleep the instant his head touched the pillows.
* * *
The harmony, camaraderie, and good relations that dampened the tension in the hall during supper evaporated the next day with the morning dew. The night’s respite had also laid to rest the duke’s food-sweetened approach to gathering testimony. He announced to the hall over breakfast that he would be questioning more persons on the accuracy of the accounts given heretofore. And as soon as he downed the last swallow of his morning ale, he began with Axel and Greeve.