The Marriage Test

by Betina Krahn

  “My respect for Sister Rosemary’s wisdom grows,” Julia said. “Go on.”

  “Men have to be shown how much women can improve their hearts, their homes, and their futures. Women have to show them by becoming lovers of their hearts, partners in their homes and possessions, and gentle guides toward good and worthy actions.”

  “And that’s it?” Julia sat on the bed, slipped off her shoes, and curled her legs beneath her. “That’s the test of a good and proper wife?”

  “According to Sister Rosemary.”

  “Then what is the test of a marriage?”

  “Well”—Regine scowled and her voice trailed off—“following Rosemary’s logic, I suppose that would be if people take vows and become lovers and partners who help each other through life.”

  “It’s all about that wretched ‘volition.’ He has to want it, too. He has to want—” She stopped short of saying me, but that was the long and the short of it.

  She sat for a few moments in silence, thinking about that evening in the tower room … of how he had kissed and caressed her and held her as if he wanted to pull her inside him and make her a part of his very heart. The combination of her food and his powerful sense of smell had cracked open his tightly guarded composure and allowed her to touch his passions and emotions, however briefly.

  He had wanted her then. He could want her again.

  She had to get him alone, feed him, and remove that wretched band from his nose long enough for her food to free his passions and emotions.

  Then, of course, she’d have to keep him from putting it back on.

  As she finished her evening ablutions and prayers, doused the candles, and climbed into bed, she felt a spark of stubborn determination relighting in her.

  “Regine?”

  “Uh-huh?” Regine’s voice came through the darkness, clogged with sleep.

  “What did Sister Rosemary say that women need men for?”

  “I don’t believe she ever got around to that,” came the drowsy reply. “She’s a nun, you know.”

  The kitchen folk were not especially surprised to find the hearths already alight the next morning when they arrived, and the tables piled high with fresh produce and berries and cheeses and herbs brought by folk who had heard of Julia’s return and had come to wish her well in her marriage to His Lordship. Julia stared at the piles of edible gifts through a mist of rising tears and declared that with such a bounty they would do some fine cooking indeed.

  The kitchen folk seemed to understand that she was throwing herself into her work for a reason and, with plenty of opinions but no prying, they forged ahead with her. The older girls were set to cleaning and seasoning baskets of trout for dinner, it being a fast day, and Cheval was set to stirring a heavy dough that would encase them. Mae was set to making a walnut and garlic sauce while Old Albee worked on sugaring nuts of various kinds. Fran the Larderer grumbled as she searched for storage for the many gifts and Pennett the Ovenman was assigned to assemble and tend large pots of rice.

  The younger girls were put to cutting and grating winter squash from the cold cellar and Ancient Odile set about measuring butter and cheese of various kinds. Julia measured spices and set the potboys to grinding, and Regine and the younger girls cut dried plums, dates, and apricots and stuffed them with blanched almonds and sugared pieces of walnut.

  When all was ready, Julia donned a fresh apron and accompanied the first course into the hall. The great chamber was almost as crowded as the kitchen. The baron and his knights were crowded around the head table with His Lordship and Grandaise’s knights. The lower boards were lined with Grandaise’s men-at-arms and a few of Crossan’s luckier warriors, sitting shoulder to shoulder … their eyes gleaming with anticipation, and their interactions oddly both tense and polite.

  The first course, intended to “open the stomach,” was a lovely Green Porée, made of chard, tart verjuice, garlic and pepper, into which a scoop of Tredura, or hashed leeks, was dropped. His Lordship and the baron looked at each other in puzzlement; those two fast-day staples had never been combined, to their knowledge. His Lordship was about to take his first bite when she appeared at his side with her tasting spoon and her stool.

  “Tsk, tsk, milord. You didn’t wait for me.” She pulled out her spoon and dipped it into the fragrant pottage. She sighed as she tested the dish, then nodded. “By all means, eat. It’s quite safe.” She gestured to the baron’s bowl. “Truly, Baron. I believe you’ll find it a lovely combination.”

  Crossan pursed one corner of his mouth and leaned around her to look at His Lordship.

  “Your bride is your taster?” he asked, not bothering to hide his dismay.

  “I—um—she has been my head cook until n-now and volunteered to—” He was speechless with embarrassment. Julia hadn’t imagined him like that.

  Crossan took a bite, and his eyes closed just as His Lordship’s did. Their joint sigh ignited a murmur of anticipation all around the hall. As the serving proceeded and the knights began to eat, sighs and groans and exclamations began to rise from every part of the hall.

  His Lordship was soon staring at the empty bottom of his bowl. When he looked up, she was staring at him and could have sworn he blushed.

  “Good, milord?” she asked with a musical lilt that made his hands curl around the arms of his chair. “Wait until you see what else I have planned.”

  Winter Squash Tart, as it happened, was the next course. Litters filled with rows of deep golden pies arrived from the kitchen. She cut one into fourths and served a quarter each to His Lordship and the baron.

  “Winter squash and almond milk … spices like nutmeg and cinnamon and ginger and a bit of cheese and sugar,” she detailed the contents of the tart as she tasted. Again she sighed and pushed the silver trencher over to His Lordship. “I confess, it would be better with cow’s milk. But since it is a fast day …” She leaned close to him, making certain that her breath moved his hair and bathed his ear. “Promise you won’t tell Father Dominic … but I put a few eggs in them.”

  He froze until she moved away. Then he took a bite … and then a larger bite … and then a still larger bite. Then he called for a whole tart.

  “Troth—you’d better save me a piece of that!” the baron demanded, licking his fingers as he eyed the tart being cut.

  The next course—it being a fast day—was fish in cases of dough. Each packet of dough was cut in the shape of a fish and pinched together around a trout such that a fin stuck out of the top. When she broke open the first of the hard pastry shells, there was a tender succulent trout on a bed of savory rice … to which she added Old Mae’s Walnut Garlic Sauce. She inhaled the vapors with a flair, then took a taste and smiled.

  “I had forgotten just how indulgent ‘fast’ days can be with the right fish and sauce.” When His Lordship made to retrieve his trencher from her, she pulled it back. “Oh, no, milord. I really should have a second taste. One cannot be too careful these days.” When she took a second bite, she chewed with exaggeration, though, in fact, the fish nearly melted in her mouth. She laughed with a teasing rasp of half-exposed desire. “As you can see, milord”—she looked straight into his eyes and unveiled for one breathtaking instant the heat simmering inside her—“it’s perfectly safe.”

  Yanking his gaze from hers, he pulled his trencher back in front of him with hands that trembled visibly. She watched him dig into the fish and rice and savory sauce like a driven man. He focused so intently on the flavors and pleasure of the food that he hardly noticed when that demolished pastry fish was replaced by a fresh one and a hand intruded to drizzle sauce over it for him.

  “Damme, Grandaise,” Crossan said with his mouth stuffed full, “do you always eat like this?”

  “Since she arrived,” His Lordship said, pointing at her with his knife.

  She folded her arms and gave the baron a confident smile.

  “Saints! She’s worth her weight in gold.” He gazed at her with undiluted awe. “Now I see why
you were dead set on having her back, Grandaise! Hell, if my cook could produce food like this, I’d marry him, too—beard and all!”

  Laughter rolled around the hall. By the time the final course of entremets was served—sugared nuts and stuffed dried fruits intended to “close the stomach”—the atmosphere in the hall was downright jovial.

  As the platters and bowls and trenchers were cleared away, Griffin watched Julia wander up and down the head table, collecting admiration as she chatted with Grandaise’s knights and Crossan’s sons. The young men were unfailingly polite and even charming as they extolled the virtues of her golden tarts and clever “fish in crust.” But every good word they spoke and adoring glance they aimed at her took a bite out of his food-mellowed mood.

  What the devil was she doing, playing the coy maiden with his and Crossan’s men? She had spoken vows with him only the day before, and until he was granted a proper annulment, her status lay somewhere in the murky region of more than a cook but less than a wife.

  He began to search for a proper description of her status, and quickly eliminated all possibilities until he came to the word bride. He shrank from that designation at first, but soon realized it was the most accurate and useful description of her role. “Bride” indicated the legal status of spoken vows, but implied newness of relation … a not-yet-completed exchange of intimacy and transfer of domestic power. In the end he decided it fit his situation and requirements exactly: Perhaps it could be used to rein in her behavior while keeping her at something of a distance.

  He turned to call her to his side and saw her bump into a servant carrying a pot of her Green Porée … which went all over the front of her apron. There was a flurry as Axel, Greeve, and several others jumped up to assist, but in the end, she removed her apron, which had prevented the spillage from reaching her gown, and all was well.

  “Julia!” He called and motioned her to his side. She came with a smile and a sway that he tried unsuccessfully not to watch.

  “Yes, milord?”

  “Sit down and tell the baron how and where you learned to cook,” he said, pointing to the stool between his and the baron’s chairs.

  She sat as she was bade and began to tell Crossan her story, including details Griffin had never heard. A baron for a father. A lady for a mother. An abbess that assigned her to the kitchen when she was only ten years old … for punishment. He found himself leaning closer to hear her vivid and sometimes humorous descriptions of the sisters, the maidens, and the abbess’s clever management of the convent’s affairs.

  “Oh, and I’ve some interesting news for you, Your Lordship.” She turned to him with a new light in her eyes. “Did you know that Grandaise and Verdun have identical kitchens? Right down to the eight sides, five hearths, and the cold well under the steps.”

  “How would you know that?” he demanded, pausing in the midst of reaching for more sugared nuts and stuffed dried fruits from a nearby tray.

  “I visited it. Lady Sophie—the count’s daughter—went on and on about the wonderful kitchen and I asked to see it. She secreted me there, late one night.”

  He almost choked on an almond-stuffed apricot and had to look at her.

  “The count’s daughter?”

  “The very one.” Her eyes were full of mesmerizing lights. “She visited me in my prison chamber. She is quite a young woman. It seems I was abducted because the count believed I was actually more to you than a cook.” She glanced at Crossan with outraged innocence. “Can you imagine?”

  “Julia—” he said in a warning tone, feeling pricked and irritable.

  “If you will excuse me, milord,” she said with a pointed little smile at his reaction. “I am no doubt needed in the kitchen.”

  As they watched her go, the baron leaned toward Griffin.

  “She may have been your cook and even your taster, once upon a time. But she is your bride now, Grandaise. What the devil is she doing still in your kitchen, tending a blazing hearth and wearing patched garments?”

  Griffin’s ears caught fire. He had seen the patch on her gown, too, and for some reason it infuriated him. He thrust to his feet and headed for the passage to the kitchens. Catching up with Julia in the covered walkway, he pulled her by the wrist out of the covered stone arches and down the slope that swept around toward the kitchen yard and outbuildings.

  “Milord—”

  “Just what the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, pulling her around to face him and backing her against the nearby wall. “Wearing patched garments … flirting and playing fair and free with my men …”

  “You told me yesterday that nothing would change as a result of the words we spoke. That I am still your cook. And as your cook, it is my duty to—”

  “Well, you’re no longer my cook.” He startled himself with what he’d said. “That is … you are to cook … still … but you are no longer just my cook. You are also my bride. And until this marriage nonsense is sorted out, you must be more circumspect in your behavior and appearance.” His gaze dropped to her worn gown with its offending patch. “They reflect on me.”

  “I cannot possibly be both ‘cook’ and ‘bride,’ milord,” she said looking up at him with those huge green eyes and a stubborn angle to her chin. “I have neither the patience nor the garments for it. Anyway … I believe you need a cook far more than you need a bride.”

  “What?” He paused a moment, feeling that he’d been flanked and not quite certain how it had happened. “What do you mean, I need a cook?”

  “Well, when you consider what cooks are good for … securing, storing, and preparing nutritious foods … building your strength … guarding your health and safety … concocting savory dishes … tempting and pleasing your palate … entertaining your allies …”

  “Julia,” he growled.

  “And then you consider what brides are good for … demanding fine clothes … decorating your hall with their presence … spending your manly strength in bed … wasting your precious hours with lustful pleasure … distracting you from duty with fleshy thoughts and temptations …”

  “Dammit, Julia—”

  “Which would you rather have, milord?” She edged close enough to brush up against him. “Me clothed and industrious in your kitchen or me naked and demanding in your bed?”

  His tongue was so thick that he could hardly swallow. Visions of naked curves and tangled hair and sweaty sheets erupted and took over his mind. A reaction flashed through his skin. It was instantly hot and sensitive, screaming for a more direct and pleasurable contact everywhere his garments touched it.

  “Cook,” he choked out. Then he lurched back, wheeled, and strode away.

  Her breath came hard and quick and her eyes glistened as she watched him flee. She folded her arms, nodded, and gave a little laugh.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sir Reynard de Crossan arrived in the banner-lined antechamber of the king’s audience hall, and sat down, propping his helmet on his knee, his elbow on the top of his helmet, and his head in his hand. Nearly a week ago the king’s chamberlain had listened to his report and ushered Lord Griffin’s letter and then Reynard himself through that massive set of doors to the king.

  “I thought I had this damned thing settled!” King Philip had roared.

  After his councillors talked him into a less ferocious royal mood, he quizzed Reynard on the alleged abduction. His first reaction was skepticism that Verdun would be so reckless as to defy a royal order. His second was disbelief that the loss of a mere cook would rouse such outrage in a nobleman of Grandaise’s status. His third was to demanded proof that the maid in question was under the protection of not only the Count of Grandaise, but of the Convent of the Brides of Virtue and the Duke of Avalon as well.

  “Good God,” he snapped, “if it’s true, a cook in my realm has more defenders than I have!”

  He sent immediately for the Duke of Avalon and for three days Reynard had sat i
n the king’s outer chamber waiting for the duke to appear.

  Now the chamberlain called his name and ushered him into the king’s presence. Finally, Reynard thought, there would be some resolution to—

  But when he stepped inside, his heart all but stopped. King Philip was seated at his writing table with his councillors gathered around him and a clerk seated nearby, taking down whatever the king indicated must be recorded. Standing before the king was a mud-spattered knight in mail and spurs … wearing a red-and-white tabard. Verdun’s colors.

  “Sir Thomas de Albans has brought disturbing news.” The king’s comment and glare were both aimed at Reynard. “It seems your lord has married his mistress, and in so doing has dealt a terrible insult to the house of Verdun and to our own royal authority.”

  “B-but, Majesty,” Reynard stammered, momentarily unmanned. “Lord Griffin could not possibly have wedded his m-mistress. He doesn’t have one.”

  “He brought this female with him from Paris a few weeks ago, Majesty,” Sir Thomas protested with a fierce look at Reynard. “She has masqueraded as his cook. And now he has wedded her.”

  Reynard’s eyes flew wide. “Majesty, this ‘cook’ he is supposed to have wedded is the young woman who was abducted a week ago.”

  “One and the same?” Philip thought on that for a moment, sitting forward. “So is this female a cook or a mistress?

  “Cook.”

  “Mistress.”

  The knights answered at once, then looked daggers at each other.

  “What have you to say for your lord, Sir Reynard?” the king demanded.

  “I have been gone from Grandaise for a week now, Majesty.” Reynard braced. “There may have been developments, but I am certain Lord Griffin would not wed anyone in defiance of your command.”