by Betina Krahn
“Poachers. We’ve had a plague of unlawful taking. With the moon full, we set out to catch the wretches at their game. When we heard voices and saw you moving we thought—” The burly nobleman looked a bit uncomfortable and glanced away. His eyes fell on Julia and widened. “I am surprised to find you here, milord. I thought you were camped some ways downstream.”
“My cook had gone off by herself and got lost,” Griffin declared with an irritable gesture toward Julia, “and I had to come out and find her.”
“Your cook?” Crossan barely covered his disbelief as he stared at Julia.
“My new cook,” Griffin declared, setting off for the distant light of his camp. “Acquired on my sojourn to Paris.”
“A cook from Paris.” The Baron Crossan scratched his stubbled chin and produced a wicked chuckle. “Well, they do say that the best ‘cooks’ in the world come from Paris, milord. It’s good to know you’ll be feeding my son so well.”
Griffin didn’t care to correct whatever erroneous conclusion the baron had drawn. It would require more explanations than he intended to make.
“Care to join me in my camp for a bit of wine, Baron?” Griffin said, gesturing toward his downstream camp.
“Your wine? Damme, Grandaise. You needn’t ask twice.” The knightly fellow barked out a few orders to his men to escort “the cook” and struck off with Griffin to commiserate on poachers and discuss the news from the Paris court.
Julia watched her employer dismiss both her presence and her purpose as he strode off with his fellow nobleman. Moments ago he’d pulled her against him and weakened her knees with a look and stolen her breath with a lightning brief kiss. Now she was abandoned like a smelly old cheese rind.
She might be his personal cook, his expensive prize, and even his culinary salvation, but she was still just a cook. Whatever her birth, however she pleased him, whatever happened between them … a cook was all she would ever be. And a nobleman of his status did not dally with mere cooks. She gasped as the full context of that interrupted kiss returned to her … unless, of course, he had other motives … such as keeping her from returning to the convent to take vows. If he kept her from being able to take religious vows, she realized with widening horror, then she would be ruined for taking marriage vows, too!
The wretch!
She came to her senses and found several men-at-arms standing around her, glaring at her in both annoyance and speculation. No one offered so much as a hint of an apology for their earlier bone-jarring handling of her. She walked surrounded by a dozen armed men, feeling their eyes on her and holding her head up to show she had nothing to hide.
It was only when they reached camp and the baron saw Sister Regine run to embrace her and worry effusively over her, that his lordship deigned to explain that his “cook” had been acquired from the Convent of the Brides of Virtue, and was sent under the chaperonage of one of the good sisters.
“I have heard of that convent.” The baron looked at her with considerably more interest. “If they produce cooks to equal their brides, then you can be sure I’ll be paying you and my son a visit soon, Grandaise.”
Moments later, Julia looked up from Sister Regine’s comforting shoulder and saw Sir Axel and Sir Greeve standing before her with a length of soft toweling and what appeared to be a piece of soap.
“A thousand pardons, demoiselle,” Axel said with a pained nod. “His Lordship sent us with these for you and orders to see that you … bathe.”
“The sister is to go with you and assist.” Greeve swallowed hard. “We are to stand guard near the stream and see that no one disturbs you.”
“Bathe?” Julia stared in disbelief at the items the knights held. “I’m ordered to bathe?”
“His Lordship said”—Axel groaned softly—“you smell like a pepper pot.”
Julia flushed crimson with humiliation.
“She does not!” Regine said, glaring at His Lordship across the camp. “How dare he say such a thing?” Then she stiffened and transferred her widened gaze to Axel and Greeve. “How would he know what she smells like? He wears that metal thing on his nose to keep from smelling anything!”
It was a very good question.
Three noses gave covert sniffs. Three sets of eyes turned on Julia with dawning recognition. Whatever transpired between her and his lordship during their time together in the dark woods, he had at least managed to smell her.
“I have no idea what he—” Julia protested. “He didn’t—I didn’t—”
It was hopeless. The seeds of suspicion had already been planted.
Grabbing the toweling and soap from the knights’ hands, she stalked out of the camp in the direction of the stream and was soon stripped to her chemise, standing waist high in the stream, scrubbing the scent of pepper from her.
The worst she could imagine was closer than she thought. She gave a terrible shiver. If Regine and Sir Axel and Sir Greeve could be made to think something improper had happened between them, then just think what the less charitably inclined would say.
Later, when she returned to the camp and warmed herself by the small, separate fire Sir Greeve had one of the men build for her, Sir Axel brought her a cup of wine and his own blanket to help her recover.
“Who is this baron?” she asked, shivering and glaring at the genial-looking nobleman drinking wine with her new master as if they were great friends.
Axel was delighted to be able to deliver that oft-told story to fresh ears.
“The barons of Crossan first won their spurs in the service of the counts of Grandaise. They went on the First Crusade with the Hospitaler knights and returned from the Holy Land wealthy men … able to purchase lands at the juncture of two well-traveled routes of commerce. They now make a tidy profit providing both safe passage and food to travelers. Ties between Grandaise and Crossan have remained strong. The current baron sent his second son to foster with milord’s father. Sir Reynard de Crossan is milord’s first knight and is watching over Grandaise in his absence.”
Later as Sir Greeve assisted Julia and Sister Regine into their cart bed, he mentioned casually that the current baron boasted that he had inherited what he referred to as the “Crossan conjugal luck.” At least half of the strapping, capable young men seated around the campfire with him were his own sons.
As Julia settled onto her pallet beside Sister Regine, she glanced back at the fire where the baron and his sons were passing around wineskins and trading stories with her employer and his garrulous knights. With a hollow feeling in her middle, she forced her gaze from His Lordship to the younger Crossans.
Blinking away a bit of moisture, she concentrated on those tall, manly frames. There would be eligible young men in His Lordship’s circle of acquaintance; this was proof.
All she had to do was keep well away from His Lordship’s devilish eyes and treacherous lips.
And cook.
Chapter Thirteen
The entire household of Grandaise turned out to greet the count and his men when they returned home, four days later.
Lord Griffin had sent a rider ahead with word to prepare his chambers and his bath, and to clean and freshen Old Jean’s chambers for the new cook. That offhand announcement of a new cook’s arrival raced through the household like a flame in dry tinder. They had been braced for a dire pronouncement from the Paris court regarding their lord’s fate and learned, instead, that he was returning home with a new cook. From Sir Reynard de Crossan, who first received the message, to the steward, to the serving women, footmen, sweepers, fire tenders, and even the boys who carried coal and emptied chamber pots … everyone had an opinion on this unexpected addition to the household staff. After all, they had been through this before. Nine times.
More work, the house women sighed. More standards to meet, the footmen muttered. More expense with nothing to show for it, the steward grumbled to the linen pantry matron, who grumbled back about the impending increase in the use of linen. More wafers to pinch, the potboys in
the kitchen snickered … at least at first, while the cook was showing off his skill.
Nowhere was the impact anticipated more anxiously than in the kitchens.
“He better not make me change the grease every week.”
“I’ll put my pea broth up against any he’s had!”
“If he don’t like havin’ a pig outside the door, he can just carry the cleanin’s down to the pens himself.”
“If he comes at me with that spoon of his—I’ll not be held responsible.”
By the time the count and his traveling party arrived, well after none, the hall had been swept, the bed furs aired and sheets changed, the torches and lamp wicks trimmed, and fresh herbs and flowers had been strewn over the permanent benches that lined the long sides of the hall. Knowing their lord’s penchant for tidiness and his grim mood as he left, every household servant had washed face and hands, changed tunics or aprons, and brushed hair or donned a clean cap … even the reluctant kitchen staff.
As the news of their lord’s approach came down from the watchtower, they hurried from all over the house to collect in the court outside the main hall to judge their lord’s demeanor for themselves. To a person, they nodded, smiled, and waved to welcome their lord. But their attention moved quickly to the other men in the party, who all looked disappointingly familiar, and then to the carts.
They scratched their seldom groomed heads in confusion at the sight of a nun and a young woman in the smaller of the two carts. Who was the little wench with the red-gold hair? Why was His Lordship bringing home a nun? And where—they exchanged puzzled looks—was the new cook?
Julia held tightly onto Regine’s hand as the cart rumbled through the gate of the stone wall and along a gravel path to the front doors of the castle.
Since they reached the borders of Grandaise, four hours ago, her heart had beaten faster and her stomach had contracted into a knot. They passed through stands of venerable old trees and two distinct ridges of hills planted with grapevines supported on wooden trellises. Everywhere she saw workers, patrolling the lanes that ran through the vineyards, grooming and tending the vines. They crossed two streams and entered an area of grain fields and crops that seemed to be lush and productive. Then, as they crested the final rise, she glimpsed the heart of the estate … a huge gray structure on a modest hill, surrounded by what looked like small village.
It wasn’t at all what she expected. The keep looked more like one of the great houses they had passed outside Paris than a true fortification. There was no moat or inner curtain wall, though there were towerlike structures on all four of the main corners of the house. Surprisingly, there were several glazed windows in the upper part of the dressed-stone structure. On either side of what seemed to be the main doors were large stone columns that supported a triangular parament in which a carving of the Grandaise coat of arms nestled amid a voluptuous display of grapes and sinuous vines. Taken together the features presented a cohesive and well-planned welcome, which reminded her of the praise Sir Axel and Sir Greeve had heaped upon the present count’s forward-thinking forebears.
The people who had turned out to greet their lord, however, were exactly what she had expected. Sir Axel and Sir Greeve had describe them with an uncanny eye for detail, and as His Lordship greeted them she was able to mutter several of their names to Regine.
The tall, well-dressed young knight who hurried down the steps to greet the count had to be Sir Reynard de Crossan. He was strong and well made and clearly resembled his brawny, amicable father. But his pleasant, blocky features wore a serious expression as he asked what had happened at court. When His Lordship said that things had gone as well as could be expected, he seemed relieved. Then his gaze darted over the familiar faces of the men in the count’s party and finally came to their cart. Where, she heard him ask, was the new cook he had sent word to prepare for?
“In the cart,” His Lordship said offhandedly, continuing to greet his retainers. He accepted a half bow from a neat-looking little man wearing a chain of office around his neck, who had to be Arnaud the Steward. The thick-set older woman who curtsied briskly had to be Genevieve, the head of the house women and overseer of the linen pantry. Then came an aged, crookbacked fellow with one eye that wandered alarmingly: clearly old Brindle, a former assistant cook brought out of his pensionage to take charge of His Lord’s kitchens.
“I’ve brought you some relief,” His Lordship declared as if speaking to someone a few counties away. Clearly old Brindle was mostly deaf as well. “A new cook. I’ll count on you to show her the kitchens.”
“About time.” Old Brindle shouted back, apparently unable to hear himself speaking. “M’ spoon arm ain’t what it used to be.”
Julia was drawn from that absorbing interaction by Sir Reynard’s visible confusion as he approached the cart and stared at her and Regine.
“I-Is one of you … ?”
“I am,” Julia said, making her way to the back of the cart. “Julia of Childress. And this is my chaperone and companion, Sister Regine.”
“Chaperone?” Sir Reynard reached up to help her down and then turned to assist the sister, looking as if he considered setting even helping hands to a nun appalling. He was so unsettled by the way Regine’s veil brushed his face as he handed her down that he blurted out: “A cook with a chaperone?”
“The demoiselle is from the Convent of the Brides of Virtue,” Sir Axel declared, rushing over to help. “The sisters and maidens never travel alone.”
Sir Reynard looked rightly confused, but erred on the side of gallantry. “Demoiselle Julia”—he gave a light bow—“I am pleased to welcome you.”
His uncertain chivalry became the template for others’ responses to her. To a person, the other knights and major members of the household bobbed and nodded respect when introduced to her and the good sister. The knights eyed her with undisguised interest, but the householders’ sidelong looks of dismay made it clear that they were not prepared for seeing a young woman made the head cook of Grandaise.
His Lordship had stood watching from the top step for a moment, then interrupted the introductions to assign the task of settling the new cook in her kitchen to Axel, Greeve, and old Brindle. Then he drew his knights and principal retainers inside with him, calling for wine and food and a full report of what transpired during his absence. Axel and Greeve traded uncomfortable glances and started toward a path leading away from the front entrance, no doubt to the rear and the kitchens.
Julia had watched His Lordship disappear into the hall and felt the sharp edge of reality whittling away the last of her illusions. He couldn’t have expressed the difference in their status more emphatically if he had shouted it from the watch towers. He entered through the main doors; she was to be escorted around to the kitchen entrance.
In the last four days of the journey, she had suffered more than her share of his dismissal. After that night in the woods, whenever he was in camp he spoke and looked through her as if she didn’t exist. Well, no more.
Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the main doors. The kitchen staff, seizing this excuse to enter their lord’s great hall, hurried after her.
“But, demoiselle, the kitchens—” Greeve began as he reached her side.
“Will still be there in a few moments,” Julia said determinedly.
The hall was every bit as surprising as the exterior of the house and was built on an awe-inspiring scale. The peaked roof and ceiling was supported by elegant carved wooden arches; clear glass windows were set high in the walls; and the smooth stone flooring was entirely bare of rushes. A great stone hearth and mantel, above which was carved a grapevine in full fruit, covered one entire end of the chamber. Before the hearth sat a wooden dais with a great rectangular table, and above the hall hung a series of three large iron rings bearing oil lamps, which Greeve informed her were lowered and lighted each evening in winter.
She stood looking up at the golden afternoon light filtering down from the high windows and dre
w a deep breath … which bore no scent of secret decay or must or mildew … no stale grease smell or smoky taint …
Suddenly the crowd gathered around the great table parted and there stood His Lordship, glaring at her and Axel and Greeve.
“Well?” he demanded.
“La demoiselle … she needed to see the hall first, seigneur,” Axel said.
“To see where the serving will be done,” Greeve added uncomfortably.
“Fine. Now take her to the kitchens,” he ordered.
Teetering on the edge of a disastrous retort, she spotted a large handwoven tapestry hanging on the wall and chose to investigate it instead. There were names and lines indicating boundaries and physical features, including the many vineyards. It was a map of the Grandaise holdings and bordering lands. She asked Sir Greeve to point out where they were and whose lands were nearby.
“Thank you, Sir Greeve,” she said when he finished. “I believe I am ready to see the kitchens now.”
“Demoiselle Julia!” His Lordship’s voice rang out. There was a hint of defiance in her slow turn back. “I will expect you to begin your cooking duties tomorrow. Then we will see if you are worth the coin I paid for you.”
If there was any doubt of her status in the household, he had just removed it. She might be a young unmarried female and under the church’s protection, but she was still a cook … paid for and firmly under his authority.
Sir Axel ushered her to the kitchen passage and Greeve, Regine, and old Brindle followed in their wake. Traipsing behind them, gawking at the grandeur of the hall they served but seldom saw, were a score of under cooks, scullions, and potboys.
When she reached the covered walkway connecting the kitchens and the hall, the light breeze helped to draw away some of the heat from her face. She paused moments later at the arched doorway to the kitchens to prepare herself, and realized that there was almost no smell at all from the kitchens. No reek of stale smoke and burned grease, no air of charred meat or scorched beans, no stench of greens past their prime, no odor of soured milk. The lack of such common offenses was such a surprise that it yanked her from her irritable mood.