It took all of Julia’s considerable powers of persuasion to move the kitchen folk back to their duties. The bruised spirits in Grandaise’s hall needed the healing solace of good food more than ever, she told them, and they had a chance to show the Count of Verdun the quality of Grandaise’s kitchen. With fresh and selfless resolve, they lifted their chins and set aside their own concerns to render service to their lord.
She threw herself into overseeing the production of an exceptionally fine supper while dealing with a weepy Sophie, who was devastated to find herself caught in the same nuptial netherworld Julia had recently inhabited. She was wedded in name and “volition”—despite an initial bit of coercion—but not in the more critical area of the consummation. And she had learned from Martin on their wedding night that the duke insisted that he make peace with his lord by suing for an annulment and returning her to her father.
During a momentary respite in the preparations, Julia pulled Sophie outside and used a cool, wet cloth to soothe her reddened eyes and puffy nose.
“That wretched duke—it’s all his fault.” She groaned as Julia tended her tear-scalded skin. “Sticking his nose in other people’s affairs. Who asked him?”
“The king, actually,” Julia said ruefully.
“I mean, Martin loves me and wants to be married to me! For pity’s sake—he braved the ‘Beast of Grandaise’ to rescue me. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“He likes my father, and my father likes him. Or at least he did.”
“Well, there
are
the little matters of a title and a castle and an heir …”
“What can I do?” She looked even more despondent. “The duke’s going to make me go back to Verdun, and my father will probably beat me black and blue and stick me in a dungeon somewhere. My marriage will be annulled and I’ll be shipped off to Frankfurt and never get to see Martin again.”
“You know,” Julia said, giving Sophie a comforting pat, “we’re assuming the worst of your father. But he’s having to change his thinking about Griffin and this feud … maybe he will change his thinking about your marriage, too. He has always liked and respected Sir Martin. Maybe when he’s had a chance to cool down and when this battle is over …” She thought about it for a moment. “Maybe he can be talked out of an annulment.” Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized another possibility that occurred to her. “Or
cooked
out of it.”
Supper that evening was possibly the most nerve-wracking experience of Julia’s life … as well as the supreme test of her culinary skills. She had surveyed her larder and dragged out every spice and delicacy within it to create dishes that would tantalize palates and promote harmony in the uneasy company that would assemble in the hall for supper. There were too many possibilities, she realized, staring at the spices and meats and the soft dough ready for rolling. And she thought of the convent … of the nights she had heard of an argument or bit of contention between sisters and crafted a menu meant to bring the arguing sides together. But men required a more potent, meat-oriented approach to culinary satisfaction. She had to find dishes that combined sweet and sour, soft and hard, hot and cold. Was there time to make it as succulent and sense-charming as it needed to be?
The most unsettling part of the planning was the fact that instead of supervising the serving from the kitchen and putting last touches on dishes the instant before they were served, she was now required, as Grandaise’s lady, to be in the hall beside Griffin, entertaining their guests. The thought of trying to warm the heart of the fierce, sardonic Count of Verdun made her want to scuttle back to her pots and kettles and renounce all rights to her place in the hall. When she confided her fears to Regine, the sister declared that she would see to the finishing and dispatching of the dishes.
It was a lot to ask of one meal, Julia realized—pacifying a king-by-proxy, forging a lasting peace between two warring noble houses, and securing two marriages that by all rights shouldn’t exist—so she insisted the kitchen staff say aloud the
“paternosters”
and rosaries they used to time their cooking, and she sent one of the potboys for Father Dominic and asked him to bless each dish before it left the kitchens.
At the last possible moment, she hurried to her chamber to wash and change into the silk gown she had worn at her marriage. Sophie appeared to help her lift her hair and dress it in a fashion befitting a married lady. Then together they descended to the hall to do battle for peace and love.
The hall had never looked more impressive. The tables were all draped with white linen, and the main chairs at the head table were set with great silver chargers. The cellar master provided the wine for her to serve to their honored guests and she carried individual cups to Griffin, the duke, Sophie’s father, the baron Crossan, and the first knights of each house … Sir Reynard and Sir Martin. Then she received a nod from the kitchen stairs, clapped her hands for the serving to begin, and seated herself beside Griffin.
The duke, as custom dictated, took the chair of the master of the hall, and Griffin and Julia were seated to his right. To his left sat Verdun and according to custom, the baron Crossan was seated next to him. That same custom of precedence required Verdun’s daughter and first knight to be seated next, so Sir Martin was forced to take a place beside Sophie, who would hardly look at him.
Cinnamon-dusted almonds served as an
aperitif,
to open the stomach, and were followed closely by an elegant
salade
of lettuce and cress topped with a vinaigrette of several kinds of beans and sliced onions and fennel. The men at the lower tables—an equal contingent of Grandaise’s and Verdun’s men—were quiet at first. But as they began to eat, Grandaise’s men began to groan silently, grin, and look with pride to their lady … raising their cups silently to her. She blushed and looked down, praying that the Count of Verdun would have a similarly pleasant experience.
The duke tried valiantly to raise safely neutral topics of conversation, but all failed until he settled on the dish being served. He seemed quite pleased by the food and complimented Julia on her choice to the beginning of the meal. Verdun said nothing, but Julia noted that he ate quickly and occasionally closed his eyes as if analyzing the dish’s components. Fortunately the baron Crossan was not so reticent. As the second course, a lovely white porée made with cream and leeks and spiced chicken broth, was served the baron groaned with pleasure and ignited a wave of audible sounds of pleasure along the Grandaise side of the hall.
“Milady, you have such a delicate touch with a porée,” he declared, hoisting a cup to her. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Thank you, Baron,” she said. “I must carry your compliments to my kitchen staff. I don’t know what I would do without them.”
“A fine cook is a blessing from Heaven,” the duke observed sagely, sipping the porée with gusto. “A fine wife is an even greater blessing. Damme, Grandaise, that must make you the best-blessed man in all of France!”
Nettled by the duke’s words, Verdun glanced at Julia from the corner of his eye and focused even harder on his food.
Then came the third course … a Hungarian Torte made of thin, flaky layers of dough stuffed with a mixture of minced chicken and pork, seasoned with saffron and fine spice. The dough was so golden and so rich and flaky that it elicited groans from both ends of the head table. Knights of all colors were nodding and grinning at the unexpected lightness and savory taste of the dish. They called for more and before long, the lower tables on both sides of the hall were making their enjoyment of the dish widely known.
By the time the first meat dish, an almond chicken
cuminade,
was being served to the lower tables, the men of Grandaise were boasting about their habitually fine fare and offering the men of Verdun a place in their garrison … for a price. The men of Verdun tossed back good natured answers, until one wine-foolish wag suggested they might just abduct the cook instead.
A deep silence fell over the hall. Verdun’s head snapped up, searching his men for the culprit, then steeling himself and looking to Griffin. All eyes turned to the lord of Grandaise, who wiped his mouth and looked out over the hall to the red-faced fellow already counting the stripes that would fall on his back for his thoughtless words.
“That, I believe has already been tried, my good man.” He felt Julia’s hand on his thigh and reached beneath the table to hold it. Then he grinned. “And when I came to get her back, I brought home not only a fine cook but a fine wife as well!” He turned to Verdun. “I must thank you, Verdun, for that remarkable bit of sorcery … turning one woman into two!”
A wave of relieved laughter went through the hall and the count reddened as he began to appreciate the irony of being the author of his adversary’s pleasure. Seeing the duke’s chuckle and prodding look, he allowed a wry smile to lift one corner of his mouth.
“If only you would do me the same favor,” he said tartly, tossing a suffering glance down the table at his wayward offspring, who reddened.
“I shall see what I can do,” Griffin said, looking at Sophie and Martin.
Another round of mirth rolled through the hall. The tightness in Julia’s chest began to loosen and by the time the stuffed honey-glazed pork was served, her prayers for the evening were being answered.
“Write my wife,” the duke cried, sinking his teeth into the tender pork stuffed with pears, apples, brie cheese and chestnuts and glazed to a golden turn with honey. “I’ve died and gone to Heaven!”
“Sweet Mother of—” Verdun looked down the table to Julia and then to Griffin beside her, his eyes wide with understanding. “Damme if it’s not true. She is the blessing of the age.” He scowled. “More than you deserve, Grandaise.”
The noise level in the hall lowered considerably as Verdun’s comment carried. All paused and looked to Griffin’s response.
“On that, Verdun, we do agree,” he said, with a pained bit of honesty that drew a husky laughter of understanding from the men in the hall.
Griffin’s and Verdun’s gazes met and held. And in that moment of honesty and acceptance, a true peace was begun.
As the supper ended, Julia asked the duke to join her in thanking the kitchen staff and tasting a new sweetmeat she was trying to perfect. He gladly complied, but as soon as his thanks were proffered, she ushered him outside to the bench where he had conducted his interviews earlier.
“Have some of this nucato. Your Grace, and give me your opinion. I’ve used a combination of nuts in the boiled honey instead of just walnuts, hoping that almonds and filberts would round out the nut flavor. Walnuts can be a bit strong. And I used nutmeg instead of ginger. Of course, some people think pepper and nutmeg aren’t good in combination. What do you think?”
The duke munched thoughtfully for a moment.
“I think … you didn’t ask me here to talk about nucato.”
His steady regard convinced her that this was a time for plain speaking.
“It’s about these marriages, Your Grace.” When he groaned she merely grew more determined. “I know you have a lot on your mind—like this campaign against Old Thibault and how to arrange and enforce a lasting peace. So, I want to propose that you allow me to take some of that burden from you.”
The duke drew a heavy breath and sighed. “I don’t suppose I’ll get out of here without hearing this. And just how do you intend to do that?”
She brightened.
“The king believes there must be ties between the houses in order to ensure peace, right? Well, let Sophie and I be that tie. We’re dear friends and we’re wedded—mostly—to men who respect each other. You’re the king’s agent, right? You have authority to make the peace. Then insist Sophie’s father allow them to stay married and make Sir Martin his heir along with Sophie … and recognize milord Griffin’s and my marriage as being not only honorable, but necessary to the stability of the peace. Then you can go to the king with a sound and viable peace that he can’t help but accept.”
The duke looked at her in astonishment.
“Meddling in statecraft now, are we? I don’t think you know what you’re asking, my lady. Sophie cannot inherit. She is a female.”
“Other women have inherited.”
“The king’s claim to the throne of France is staked on inheriting exclusively through the male line. He will never agree to such an arrangement.”
“Well then, don’t think of it as Sophie inheriting, think of it as
grafting
Sir Martin into the Verdun line.” When the duke still looked skeptical, irritation got the best of her. “Look, does the king want peace here, or not? If he does, then he has to be willing to be a little flexible …”
Making peace and setting the world to rights was an exhausting experience, Julia thought as she trudged up the steps to her bedchamber later. And she still had her own part of the world to set to rights.
Griffin stood in the darkened chamber by an opened window. As she approached she could see the pain in his face and knew he must be thinking of the raid and Bertrand’s death.
“I’m sorry, milord,” she said, making her way to his side.
“Why?” he said coolly. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I meant about Bertrand. I know it must have been difficult for you.”
“He was a traitor. I’ll lose no sleep over his fate.”
Alarm crept up her spine as she touched his arm and he withdrew it. His night-darkened eyes seemed like bottomless wells of sadness.
“I know you trusted him—”
“He was a traitor,” he said, looking away. “I was a fool to trust him.”
“You couldn’t have known what was in his heart. The fault was in
him,
not in your trust of him. You cannot live in this world without trusting others.”
She reached up to remove the band from his nose, and he grabbed her wrist and held it. There was a long silence, in which she quit reaching and he released her hand.
Aching with the need to reach him and make him respond to her, she removed her clothes, hung them on pegs, and then slid naked between the bedcovers. He still stood by the window, staring.
“Come to bed, milord,” she said softly, intending to offer him her warmth as comfort, to draw him back from the coldness that was claiming him. “You will have a hard day tomorrow. You need to rest.”
“Go to sleep, Julia,” he said thickly. “You may have the harder task tomorrow:
waiting.”
Miles away, in the hall of the house of Roland, Old Thibault sat in his ancient chair, staring at the treacherous rabble that filled his neglected hall and hating them almost as much as he hated Verdun and Grandaise.
The brutes had failed him that day; they had allowed his grandson to be killed, and in so doing, they had stripped him of all possibility of fulfilling the dream that had kept him alive these many years … that his house and line would rise again and take back the land and prominence they had lost when Grandaise and Verdun surpassed them.
Now the boy was gone. And it was all for naught.
When they told him of Bertrand’s death, he flew into a rage and struck out at them with bony fists and the staff he used to walk. They backed away, watching, and in desperation he seized a blade and began to hack viciously at his great chair and table, knowing they would never see the good life he had schemed and even murdered to return to them.
When his strength was spent and his fury had cooled, only icy and dreadful determination remained. He called his hired captains to his side to reiterate his plan for tomorrow … with one slight modification.
As hardened, murderous eyes flicked speculatively over his wasted frame, he sweetened the bounty he had promised for the heads of the two men he hated more than death. Taking two bags of coins, he drove an iron spike through each into the wall behind his chair.