by Betina Krahn
Thus, when a tall man in a ragged cloak appeared among them and strode straight toward the gate, they were incensed and demanded he wait at the back of the crowd. A few of the more intrepid souls grabbed his cloak as they insisted he wait his turn at the back. Some he shook off physically; others he pierced with a glare so fierce that they released him and skittered back to the safety of their fellows. By the time he reached the gate, opposition to his assumption had dwindled to shocked murmurs and shaken fists.
Griffin, Comte de Grandaise, walked boldly through the thick wooden gate, which, as it happened, stood ajar. But once inside he faded back against the stone wall and slid along it to a notch that offered at least partial concealment. From there he was able to survey the yard and orient himself.
Nearby, a gaggle of young girls and habit-clad sisters were struggling to settle planks across wooden braces to form makeshift tables. A pair of old men shuffled back and forth, carrying well-used benches out of what appeared to be a chapter dining hall. Periodically, some of the sisters would be called urgently back inside … leaving the young girls to chatter excitedly about their visitors and about the tasks they’d been assigned in the upcoming distribution.
The working parts of the convent were arrayed in a row along the outer wall, ringing the rear yard; the well, the cow byre, the stables, the shed, and the dovecote and chicken roost. Nearby was a stake-and-twine fence set atop a low wall of chiseled stone blocks. He edged closer and peered over it at well-tended rows of kitchen herbs. There was a surprising range of specimens: chervil, dill, lemongrass, mint, chives, onions, sage, leeks, rosemary, parsley, thyme, basil, summer savory … all grouped according to tastes … pungents, tarts, and savories. It was heartening. Someone here had a sense of culinary order.
He made his way around the herb garden wall. Pausing again behind a stack of old birch baskets and poultry ricks, he spotted the kitchens, identifiable by the plumes of smoke drifting out of sturdy-looking stone stacks that reached well past the roof. He watched the sisters and maids coming and going until an elderly sister came out to call everyone inside.
Seizing the opportunity, Griffin darted stealthily across the yard and inserted himself between the edge of the open kitchen wall and a dog cart that turned out to be filled with baskets of green tops, scrapings, and kitchen offal.
The Count of Grandaise reduced to hiding among the kitchen refuse to catch a glimpse of a cook. He groaned. Grandfather must be turning over in his grave.
Desperate for a better vantage point, he stuck his head around the corner of the kitchen opening and spotted a space between the wall and stacks of grain bags and barrels. Using the cover of the confusion of kitchen workers bustling thither and yon, he darted around the open wall to the safety of that new niche.
That was when he saw them.
Pies. A whole sea of them. Golden, perfect crusts mounded and laid out side by side … like undulating waves that stretched for yards atop cooling tables near the open wall. He recalled Axel’s and Greeve’s descriptions and against every disappointment-jaded impulse he possessed, his mouth began to water.
On the far side of the kitchen, in one of the four great hearths, fat pork shanks and legs of lamb were roasting over spits, flames flaring as grease dripped onto the coals. Nearby, pewter platters were laid out on tables, their handles tied with clean linen. Beside each was a boat and ladle ready to receive and dispense sauce. One of the old sisters was stropping long knives, preparing for the carving.
Fat tureens of pottage sat steaming on tables near the door, accompanied by baskets of beautiful golden bread. Farther still were platters piled with what looked like packets of fried dough—pasties of some sort.
His mouth was gushing water now. He had to have one of those pies … had to have a taste. Just as he slipped from his hiding place to the edge of the cooling table, a horde of chattering females came rushing back into the kitchen and swooped down on the pottage and bread. Orders and instructions flew from several quarters.
“You and you go before with the bread … you and you come behind with the bowls.”
“Sister Archie brought a message and the abbess jumped up and rushed from the dining hall,” he heard someone say with bewilderment.
“What do we do?” came another female voice.
“Begin serving the pottage,” came a definitive response. “You … two by two … one holds while the other serves. And use your napkins!”
He was tempted to try to catch sight of whoever was issuing orders, but decided to focus instead on sampling one of the pies. Sticking his nose up over the edge of the cooling table, he seized the closest one, tucked it under his arm, and headed back to his hiding place.
Sitting on the floor amid barrels and grain bags, he drew out his eating knife and realized his hand was trembling as it poised above the pie. He cut a thick wedge, pried it out, and gave it a looking over … prolonging both the anticipation and the hope. Then he opened his mouth and …
Ahhhh.
The texture. The spicing. The delicate crust and tenderness of the meat.
By the blessed Saints, it was … he chewed, swallowed, and took a second bite before allowing himself to think it … marvelous!
Only long years of ruthlessly practiced self-restraint prevented him from burying his face in that pie tin and wolfing down the contents.
It could be, he told himself desperately, that the cook simply had a way with crusts or got lucky with the combination of fillings. One dish was not enough on which to judge an entire kitchen. Or a cook. He licked his lips, savoring the lingering taste of spices, and stared ruefully at the pie. He needed more.
As soon as the tide of servers retreated back into the dining room and only a pair of elderly sisters and some kitchen boys remained to continue carving the meats and applying the sauces, he left his hiding place again and crept around the work tables. He watched from below and as the kitchen boys swung another spit from the fire and the old sisters turned away to supervise, he stuck his arm up and snatched a small leg of lamb … that burned his hands!
He fell back against the floor and dropped the meat on his chest to keep it from meeting the same fate. On the way back to his hiding place, he grabbed a napkin to save his hands, a loaf of bread, and one of the small pewter boats filled with what appeared to be a pink sauce. Emboldened by his success, he ventured still farther … determined to collect one of those pasties and to empty part of a tray of stuffed dates, almond tarts, sugared walnuts, small round cheeses, and what appeared to be spice-dusted crisps.
Then he spotted what appeared to be a pair of small animals—hedgehogs—sitting on a tray of greenery, apart from the others.
Hedgehogs? She cooked and presented hedgehogs to a duke? Opening the doublet he wore over his tunic, he tucked the sweetmeats inside and crept over to investigate. On closer inspection, the hedgehog quills were too thick and not nearly as sharp as they should be and the eyes seemed to be all crinkled and the nose bulged oddly. Edging still closer, he realized they weren’t quills at all, but almonds—fried almonds! It was a hedgehog conceit, made out of edibles, intended for presentation to the duke!
Not an elegant peacock or swan or pheasant, but a hedgehog. It could be seen as whimsy. Or disrespect. He scowled. This cook had either some skill or some nerve.
The sound of voices rumbling back toward the kitchen warned he was about to be inundated with cooks and servers once again. Frantic to taste this ambitious creation, he yanked out his knife and sliced off one of the hedgehogs’ hindquarters.
Crowded back into his hiding place, he spread out the napkin he’d snagged and deposited the lamb and sauce boat on it, then began to pull the rest of his booty from his doublet. Then with a half-uttered prayer, he sank his teeth into the lamb shank and closed his eyes. Grease dripped down his chin, but he scarcely felt it. He was too focused on the flavor sliding down his tongue and then rising up an aromatic back door into his brain.
For the first time in weeks—months!—
he wanted to smell something. Fresh, tender lamb cooked to perfection … rubbed with garlic and stuffed with mint. He swallowed, ripped off another piece, and dipped it into the pink sauce. Pepper and garlic … in an almond milk base … with lamb juices and a hint of sweet grape for color and richness. Suddenly he was desperate to smell it, had to know the full effect of it, for good or for ill.
He reached greasy fingers up to the steel band he wore habitually across his nose and slid it off. Bracing himself, he held the lamb under his nose and inhaled. The scent of perfectly seasoned and roasted meat staggered him. He turned the hot lamb shank over and over, sniffing, absorbing, and luxuriating in every nuance of the combined meat, flame, and spice.
Biting off another huge chunk, he grinned and chewed enthusiastically, savoring every precious moment the meat was in his mouth. After several large bites, he turned to the pie again, smelling it this time before slicing and tasting. Cinnamon and saffron … oh, beautiful plums … tender, juicy pork … flaky crust with just the rapturously right amount of seasoning. Then he went to the purloined pasty that proved to be filled with chicken seasoned with sweet leeks and layered with spinach and what looked like a light-colored cheese. He sniffed—gratified to detect recently milled flour, new cheese, and fresh fat used in the frying—and dipped and sopped and devoured, growing steadily more enthralled.
It was nothing short of miraculous. Every dish, every sprig or dash of spice, every aroma blended uncannily with the others … not only in the same dish, but with all of the others in the whole meal. The pottage blended with the pasties, which blended superbly with the pies, then the lamb and the pork with the pink garlic sauce … which led to the rich entremets …
And that hedgehog, whose rump turned out to be made of a dense, sweet yellow cake of sorts, studded with currants, soaked with almond milk and spices … cardamom, cloves, and nutmeg. The soft, melt-on-your-tongue interior presented a stunning contrast to the browned, crunchy almond spines.
He groaned with pleasure as he ripped more meat from the lamb bone, and stuffed his mouth full of the chicken-spinach pasty with the pungent light cheese. Quivering with pleasure, he finally abandoned all attempts at self-control. Bite after glorious bite, the juices ran and the aromas and scents filled his head as he closed his eyes and sampled and smelled and savored …
Chapter Three
At that very moment, Julia of Childress was meeting the abbess at the top of the steps leading down to the kitchens. The head of the convent was wringing her hands and nearly as pale as the white ruched linen of her wimple.
“The bishop has just arrived.” The abbess looked as if the statement pained her physically. “Light-fingered old trout. Says he heard the duke was visiting and hoped to pay his respects to His Grace. Humph. Snooping about is more like it. And he catches us serving meat. I suppose it’s too late for just bread and pottage.” She gave the air a sniff and winced. “The entire convent reeks of cooked flesh.”
“Reeks?” Julia bit her lip to keep a bit of her “spirit” from boiling over.
“You’ll just have to carry on and serve what’s been prepared. But no entremets or spiced wine at the end of the meal.” The abbess shook a finger. “I won’t have the bishop flogging me with canon law again for not fulfilling our tithes. Heaven knows, he’s already eyeing our prime croplands along the river.” She whirled and exited to the dining hall in a fierce billow of black.
Julia watched her go with mounting anger. Bread and pottage. She ground her teeth. She understood the abbess’s problem … distrust for the acquisitive, high-handed bishop she was forced to obey … but it was still the abbess’s problem. It would take nothing less than a miracle to give one visitor the impression of wealth and another the impression of poverty with the same meal. And good as she was in the kitchen, miracles were still a bit beyond her.
As she stomped back down the steps to the kitchen, she carried with her the memory of the abbess’s shaking finger.
No entremets. Her eyes narrowed. The devil she’d leave off the entire final course. She and her kitchen staff had labored for two long days to create this meal. She refused to wreck the menu just to make the abbess feel less conspicuous in front of the bishop. Truth be told, she wanted her food to be conspicuous. Memorable. Astounding. This was her first and perhaps her only chance to serve a nobleman of the duke’s status. If she were ever to have a chance to marry and leave the convent, she would have to draw the attention and interest of someone as influential as the Duke of Avalon. This was her chance and she was not about to relinquish it because the abbess didn’t want the bishop to realize the convent had substance enough to feed a duke like a king!
She made for the tables positioned near the hearth, stood watching, and nodded at the wafer-thin slices the old sisters were carving. Snatching a piece of meat, she rolled it and dunked it into the nearest sauceboat.
For a moment she stood with her eyes closed and her mouth busy, critiquing the spices, the roasting time, and the distance from the coals. After sufficient deliberation, she sighed, licked her lips, and produced a satisfied smile.
“Perfect.” She wheeled on the young sisters and maidens collected to watch with widened eyes. “Don’t just stand there. Let’s go feed a duke!”
After a few moments of total chaos, Julia accompanied the train of servers to the bottom of the steps leading up to the dining hall, calling last-minute instructions as she sent them two by two, carrying covered serving platters of meat and roasted vegetables and boats of sauce between them. Almost as quickly as it had risen, the confusion and tension in the kitchen subsided and she turned her attention to the finale of the meal.
The trays of entremets—laden with stuffed fruits, candied nuts, almond tarts, and cinnamon-dusted pastry crisps—seemed a bit sparse and she rearranged them to make them look better. Thank Heaven she hadn’t insisted on producing something more exotic. When she learned the duke’s young son traveled with him, she decided something simpler, even playful would delight both father and son. Perhaps the simplicity of the meal’s finale would mitigate the penance the abbess would inflict on her for serving the sweetmeats anyway.
Then she came to what she intended to be the pièce de résistance of the meal and stopped dead, staring in horror at the desecrated hindquarters of her precious hedgehog conceit.
“But—but … what … who …”
Strangling on her own juices, she turned to the trio of old kitchen sisters who had just collapsed on stools away from the heat of the hearths and ovens.
“Who cut into the—”
She halted at the sight of the veiled and wimpled trio fanning themselves with their aprons, looking utterly exhausted. If they knew anything about it, they would have said something. They had taken almost as much delight in the creation of the hedgehogs as she had.
She turned back and with trembling hands tried to close and tuck and repair the ruined creature. It was no good. The little beast was beyond saving. Her heart sank. Who would do such a thing? She clasped her hands together, grappling with the hurt and sense of betrayal roiling inside her. Who in the convent would be so callous or so greedy as to steal a special dish intended for their most esteemed patron?
First the abbess demands she not serve the carefully crafted finish of her feast and now this!
Seizing control once more, she forced herself to think about how the situation could be salvaged. She hadn’t made enough for all of the diners … perhaps if she presented the one remaining hedgehog whole, while quickly cutting and serving the other before they could see its missing rear …
Then she spotted a puddle of sauce on the planking beside the hedgehog tray. Dabbing a finger into it, she tasted it and recognized her pink garlic sauce. Someone had dribbled it on the table. She spotted another pool by her feet, and followed a string of dribbles leading across the floor to the far side of the kitchen. Whoever had stolen part of her hedgehog had stolen sauce. And what was sauce without something to dip into it?
She followed the trail to stacks of barrels, crates, and grain bags at the edge of the open wall, where she heard moaning and soft, unmistakable mouth-smacking sounds. Her eyes widened.
The wretch hadn’t bothered to carry the food out of the kitchen before stopping to consume it!
She pulled a bag of grain from the top of the stack and realized that there was a opening between the stacks and the wall. Furious, she charged around the stacks and into that opening … to find herself facing a pair of tawny eyes set in a broad, muscular face smeared with grease, sauce, and pastry crumbs. It was a man, sitting behind the barrels and flour bags with a cache of purloined food, eating as if there were no tomorrow.
“Why, you miserable, thieving—” She leaned down to grab him by the top of his tunic to haul him out of his hiding place and spotted the food-stained napkin by his feet dotted with stray almonds … slivered, fried almonds. She braced and pulled with all her might. “Come out of there!”
Up he came, with a lamb bone in one hand and a pie tin in the other. By the time he reached his full height, she found herself staring up at a tall, dark figure with shaggy hair, broad shoulders, and a mouth covered with food.
She blinked, momentarily taken aback by his size. His features were angular, but he had none of the hollow, desperate malnourishment of the abjectly poor about him … which stoked her ire even hotter.
Griffin of Grandaise lurched to his feet, emerging from his food-induced daze to find himself caught between stacks of barrels and a kitchen wall holding a well-gnawed lamb shank and a mostly empty pie tin. His awareness quickly broadened to include the food all over his chin, the grease, crumbs, and flour on his padded tunic, and the fury of a young woman pulling back a fist to plow it into his midsection.