The Marriage Test

by Betina Krahn

  “He did, Majesty,” Sir Thomas insisted. “I saw it with my own eyes. Grandaise came to get the wench and when milord Verdun brought her out … the Beast wedded the wench on the spot … right on milord’s doorstep. An insult to my lord’s honor and a shocking defiance of Your Majesty’s expressed will.”

  “Damned if I’m not sick of dealing with the lot of you.” Philip shoved to his feet and leaned toward the opposing pair with a face like granite. “Calais is under siege … the northern provinces are a shambles … and the Flemish merchants are near revolt. I’ll not hear another word until Avalon—”

  “Here, Majesty!” came a breathless voice entering from the antechamber. All turned to the barrel-chested figure in ducal robes, hurrying to join them. He paused some feet away for a graceful bow. “I came as soon as I got your letter.”

  “And not a moment too soon.” Philip sank back wearily into the cushions of his great carved chair. “This girl—this cooking wench of Grandaise’s—are you or are you not pledged to protect her?” Philip demanded.

  “Cooking wench?”

  “The chit from the Brides of Virtue!” the king snapped.

  “Oh. The cook.” The duke nodded with a wince. “She was sent from the convent to revitalize the comte de Grandaise’s kitchens.”

  Philip searched out the name in Grandaise’s letter. “Julia of Childress?”

  “That sounds like the name. The abbess of the convent did not want to let the girl go, but the bishop liked the color of Grandaise’s gold and ordered the abbess to send the girl with him.”

  “Grandaise had gold?” the king said, his eyes widening.

  “A deal was struck: The maid would go to Grandaise and work for him for a year, establishing his kitchens, and then would return to the convent to take vows. I was to act as guarantor.” The amicable duke looked alarmed. “Are you saying, Majesty, that something has happened to the maid?”

  “Grandaise may have wedded her … in defiance of a royal command that he marry Verdun’s daughter to end their long-standing feud.” Philip looked to his councillors, who nodded affirmation. Then he picked up a letter in each hand and frowned, weighing them against each other.

  “So. This Julia of Childress is a cook … who may or may not have been Grandaise’s mistress … before he may or may not have made her his wife,” he mused irritably. “Verdun is seeking compensation for the violated betrothal.” He tossed both letters onto the desk in disgust. “Troth—the man has ballocks … demanding compensation, when a month ago he stood in this very chamber and said he’d rather put his daughter to the sword than hand her over to Grandaise!”

  “Majesty, this is a grave insult to my seigneur, but also to the crown of France.” Sir Thomas tried to steer the king back to considering his lord’s plea.

  “But it was Verdun who provoked it, by abducting the maid in the first place,” Reynard countered. “How else would she have come to be there?”

  “I-I … believe she was lost in the woods … and … found and taken back to Verdun.” Sir Thomas was thinking on his feet, but too slowly.

  The king gave a snort of disbelief.

  “What the hell kind of female has a convent, a duke, and two counts up in arms over her?” Philip asked no one in particular. “What? Is she Helen of Troy?”

  “A fetching wench, as I recall, but not a face to launch a thousand ships,” the duke said, rubbing his eyes and trying to recall that night at the convent. “I believe her attractions lay more in the culinary realm. She is a remarkable cook, Majesty. She made a hedgehog conceit for my young son that he still speaks of. I believe the abbess would have gladly killed the bishop in order to keep her.”

  “Which bishop?” the king asked.

  “Rheims,” Avalon answered.

  “Well, that’s understandable.”

  At that time a figure who had gone unnoticed rose from a silk-upholstered bench beneath the large window at the side of the chamber. The king looked up as the dignified woman in a silk brocade gown, wimple, and veiled headdress glided across the floor and through his advisors to his side.

  “Milord husband,” Queen Jeanne said as she placed a hand on his velvet-clad shoulder, “too often you are France’s indulgent ‘father.’ You let these squabbling children divert you from more important matters of state. Why not send a representative to learn the truth and deal with it for you?” She glanced at Avalon, who sensed what she intended and groaned audibly. “The duke, who already has an obligation in the case, could carry the royal interest south and investigate for you.”

  “Please, Majesty,” Avalon said with a wince, but sensed it had been decided the instant the words left the queen’s lips. Jeanne of Burgundy was a formidable woman, and some said the power behind the throne. Clearly, the king took her council to heart … evidenced by the fact that his councillors stepped back to allow her access as she approached. “I already must see to the interests of the abbess and convent.”

  “Surely, Avalon, you would not consider putting the interests of a gaggle of nuns above that of your divinely anointed sovereign.” Philip engaged the duke’s gaze and forced a surrender.

  “Never, Majesty.”

  “You already know more about this mess than anyone at court. Go. Figure out what’s happened and bring these two rabid hounds to heel. I may have need of their garrisons soon, and I’ll not have their strength and substance squandered in senseless battles.” He motioned to his secretary to begin drawing up the official document embodying his decree. “Do whatever you have to do, Avalon. Make them see reason.”

  For the next two days, Julia cooked her heart out. And Grandaise—both the man and the people of the great hall—ate very well indeed.

  Chaudume of Pike … Turnips with Chestnuts and Sage … Fennel and Leek Torte … Cold Pork with Sage and Caraway dressing … roasted carrots in ginger glaze … Summer Squash Torte with Cheese … poached pears in spiced syrup … apple mousse with almond milk … sugared almond torte … and wafers. Lots of wafers. The potboys were ecstatic. And the Baron Crossan declared that when these present “troubles” were over, he might just forget which road led home.

  Despite His Lordship’s insistence that she needn’t “taste” his food any longer, she appeared at his side at each meal to receive firsthand his reaction to what was served. The way he struggled to contain his pleasure in the food, the way his eyes lingered ever longer on her, and the increasing frequency of incidental brushes of his hands against her hinted that his resolve to keep their vows from changing anything in his life was wavering.

  With each dish she produced and each meal her kitchen served, Julia refined the plan that had been developing in her mind and set another part of it in motion. Critical to her success, however, were two things available only at Verdun: Grand Jean’s book and a quantity of truffles. To that end, she sent a message to Sophie of Verdun by one of the older and shiftier potboys.

  “That’s a cinch,” Raoul said with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m good at gettin’ in an’ out, wi’out bein’ seen.”

  “You must place this letter”—she wrapped his fingers around the rolled parchment—“directly into Lady Sophie’s hands. Only hers. She is shorter than me and pretty, with dark hair and eyes. She shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

  “I’ll find ’er, milady. She’ll have it a’fore nightfall.”

  It was risky, sending a message to Sophie. If the boy was caught it might be seen as disloyalty—Bertrand’s betrayal had pierced Griffin of Grandaise to the core. Even a suspicion of betrayal would ruin her with him. But she had to try.

  It was late and the lamps were burning low that night when a bedraggled and breathless potboy burst through the kitchen door. Julia rushed to help her messenger to a stool at the table.

  “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously and sagged with relief when he nodded. “And did you deliver it? Into her very hand?”

  The lad nodded, grinning. “She’s pretty, milady. But not as pretty as you.”


  Julia laughed and set a whole plate of wafers before him.

  The next midday, just before dinner, one of the potboys came rushing into the kitchen calling for Julia. “Come, milady—there’s someone askin’ for ye.”

  Julia wiped her damp hands on her apron and hurried outside, thinking it might be a messenger with the truffles from Verdun. She stopped stock-still at the sight of Lady Sophie standing in the kitchen yard, wearing a hooded cloak and a determined expression. In her arms were a large black book and a cloth-covered basket, and behind her, a groom holding her baggage-laden horse.

  “Sophie!” Julia was so surprised she could scarcely say the name. “What are you doing here?”

  “You asked for these”—she held out the book and basket—“and I decided to bring them myself.”

  “Oh, Sophie!” She opened her arms and hurried to engulf the lady of Verdun in a huge, boisterous hug. “I can’t tell you what this means to me! How can I ever thank you?”

  “I had a devil of a time getting into your old chamber to search for that book. And Francois—ever since that night you cooked with him, he’s been snarly and secretive. I had to wait till he was out of the kitchen and steal into the larder to filch these ‘truffle’ things.” Sophie drew back enough to unload the things into her arms. “This better be important.” At closer range, Julia noted an uncharacteristic trace of strain and uncertainty in her expression.

  “It is. Very important,” Julia said, touching Sophie’s cheek. “Goodness, Sophie, you’ve taken a terrible risk coming here. If your father finds out—”

  “He’ll have a royal fit. He’ll stomp and swear like a devil and probably behead somebody.” She tossed her head strongly enough to send her hood sliding down to her shoulders. “But it won’t be me.”

  “Don’t be so sure—” Julia recalled her encounter with Bardot of Verdun.

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Sophie said tautly. “Because I’m not going back there.”

  “What?” Julia blinked, thinking surely she had misheard. “You mean—”

  “I’m not going back to Verdun. Ever.” She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I need shelter and protection. Do you think your ‘beast’ would be willing to take me in?”

  Julia took her in to the kitchen and sat her down at one of the empty work tables. Sophie looked around in astonishment.

  “This is exactly like Francois’s kitchen at Verdun,” she said.

  “Exactly. Remember, I said to Francois that our kitchens were identical. He didn’t seem pleased to hear it.”

  “Why would he be?” Sophie said. “He brags about how he planned it and how unique it is in all of France.” She frowned. “But that’s not true.”

  “No, it’s not.” Julia smiled, wondering what she would say when she met the Beast. “There may be quite a few surprises in store for you at Grandaise.”

  She introduced Sophie to Regine and enlisted the sister’s aid in keeping her presence there a secret until the appropriate time to reveal it. Together they got her some wine to steady her nerves and, between sending the two evening courses up to the hall, listened to her story.

  “I thought when you married the Bea—the count that I would be free … that perhaps my father would consider making me a match with someone I know … someone who …” Sophie lowered her gaze to her cup, cleared her throat and composed herself. “But as soon as you rode off with your count”—she looked up at Julia—“he was already scheming to barter me off to some German prince.”

  Tears came to Sophie’s eyes, but she glared so hotly that they dried before falling.

  “I heard my father laughing and saying the prince is monstrously fat … that his first wife died when he rolled over on her in bed.”

  Julia made a choked sound that was halfway between a laugh and a gasp. She and Regine looked at each other and reached for Sophie’s hands.

  “Well, you’re safe here,” Julia declared. “I’m sure His Lordship will give you sanctuary.” She chewed the corner of her lip, thinking. “I just have to find the right time to tell him that you’re here.”

  From the cover of outbuildings at the edge of the village around Grandaise, Martin de Gies watched the front gate for sign of a gray horse and rider.

  “Dammit, Sophie,” he swore quietly, glancing up to judge the late hour by the red streaks in the sky overhead. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He thought of his men and the column of smoke they had been riding to investigate that morning when he spotted a familiar gray horse and cloaked rider headed along the edge of the trees across the fields from Verdun’s main gates. By now, Gerard and the men would have assessed the situation, rendered what aid they could, and reported back to the garrison. All without him. And he would have to explain, when he returned, what had made him send the patrol on without him.

  Sophie. If he went back now he would have to reveal that he’d spotted her on horseback, unescorted, riding east, and that by the time he tracked her through the woods, he had found her riding furiously for the gates of Grandaise.

  He couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to head straight for the seat of her father’s sworn enemy, but he had a good idea of what had set her to flight in the first place. For the past three days she had teased and enchanted and out-and-out seduced him … had melted his reason, resolve, and resistance … and all but succeeded in reducing his defenses to cinders. He’d been on the brink of throwing her down on her bed and giving her exactly what she was asking for when she whispered into his overheated ear that both she and Verdun were his for the taking … words that seemed like a betrayal of his oath to his lord and his sense of honor … words that rattled his very bones with their potent allure.

  After following her to Grandaise, he stopped long enough to remove his armor, hide his colors, and swipe a ragged cloak from a clothing line to cover his leather jerkin and sword. By keeping to the edge of the outlying barns and sheds he had managed to escape detection. But if Grandaise’s men found him here, just outside their walls, his life was probably forfeit.

  And if he returned home without Sophie, he could face a similar fate. Her father had trusted him with her safekeeping. If anything happened to her …

  A stab of loss struck him, sending an ache of longing fanning through his chest. If anything happened to her—to those big brown eyes, sweetly petulant lips, and saucy tongue—he would never be able to forgive himself.

  He couldn’t imagine what she was doing in the hall of her father’s dreaded rival, or how he was going to convince his seigneur that she had gone there of her own free will. His only hope was to get her out of there and home again before her father found them both missing.

  “Go home, Sophie. Don’t make me come in there after you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It had been a long, arduous day and showed every sign of getting longer. As Griffin entered his hall, he removed his sooty gauntlets and brushed at the combination of dust and ash that had collected between the links of his mail. He had ridden out early to investigate a column of smoke spotted by one of the tower sentries. On the way, he encountered a family of displaced shepherds and discovered that their cottage, situated on his pasture lands, had been set on fire by ill-dressed but well-armed men who wore no colors.

  They might as well have worn their red and white, Griffin thought. He knew exactly where they had come from.

  It was a cruel and cowardly attack, coming just at dawn and aimed at simple people who had nothing to steal and no weapons to defend themselves. The worst of it was, they had returned to their cottage just yesterday, after having spent several days in the safety of their lord’s walls. He and his men spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon riding to other outlying cottages and bringing the vulnerable folk back into the safety of Grandaise.

  He and his patrol had missed dinner and as they returned, all the men could talk about was what they hoped Lady Julia would have for them at supper. They each had favorite dishes and de
scribed them in such loving detail that he felt his stomach rumbling and his patience dissolving in the water his mouth was making. Now he felt fatigued and gritty and ravenous … in no condition to have to encounter Julia’s delectable food and even more delectable presence.

  Night after night he sat there in his hall, in his chair, watching and wanting her … being stewed in his own damned juices. He knew what she was doing. Being cooperative and reasonable and diligent. Letting his own passions do her work for her. And they were. Dammit.

  He wanted nothing more than to scoop her off her feet, bear her straight up to his chambers, and love her until he worked out the ache in his body and the fever in his blood. But his desire for her had already wreaked havoc on his standing with the king and brought him to the brink of war. Imagine what catastrophes awaited should he ever truly tried to make her his wife!

  “Supper is a bit delayed, milord,” Arnaud the Steward said to him as he strode onto the dais and handed off his gauntlets and helm to his squire. He looked at Griffin’s streaked face and dusty mail and smiled apologetically. “If you would like, milord, I can have water sent to your chambers so that you may bathe and change your clothes as you wait.”

  Grumbling at the delay in supper but grateful for a few moments of solitude, he trudged up the steps to his chambers, where a crew of house women had begun filling his great copper-lined tub with heated water. At that moment, the sight of the steam rising from the water and the prospect of soaking his aching body in warmth were every bit as welcome as a platter of well-peppered beef.

  His squire helped to remove his armor and boots. When the women left, he stepped naked into that beckoning tub, sank into the water, and groaned as his squire brought him a tankard of mulled wine. He drank and soaked and let his head drop back and his eyes close … gradually letting go of the day’s strains and worries. Around him footsteps and scrapes indicating movement told him his squire was dusting and putting away his garments and laying out fresh ones …