by Betina Krahn
“Julia, how did you know?” he asked, looking down at her in his arms.
“About the truffles?” When he nodded, she smiled. “Grand Jean’s book.”
He sat up as she pulled away and slipped from his bed.
“What book?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Julia wrapped herself in the quilt and padded across the moonlit chamber to Griffin’s writing desk. She came back with the large, leather-bound book and held it out to him. While he sat up and piled pillows and bolsters behind him, she lighted several tapers on the candle stand closest to the bed.
“I brought this with me to your chamber last night, intending to show it to you. But then … you were very hungry and supper awaited.”
By the time she climbed in beside him, he was staring in shock at the frontispiece of the great book, which contained a listing of the names, dates, and relations of several generations of his forebears. He turned to the first real page and discovered a rendering of Grandaise’s coat of arms. On the second page was a sample of the distinctive script found throughout the book. She could see from Griffin’s face that he recognized it.
“Where”—his words came out a hoarse whisper—“did you get this?”
“Remember that I told you I visited Verdun’s kitchen? Well, while I was there I met the head cook, Francois. He told me he arrived at Verdun exactly seven years ago. Then I asked and learned that his first name is ‘Jean.’ ” She leaned forward, eyes bright with pride of discovery. “Milord, I am certain that he is the same ‘Petit Jean’ who was once your second cook and Grand Jean’s eager pupil. I know this because he had this very book—written by Jean de Champagne, ‘Grand Jean’—in his possession.”
“You’re saying that my former under cook is at Verdun?”
“Exactly that.”
He was astounded.
“Jean occasionally spoke of wanting to write down his recipes to pass down to the next generation,” he said as he ran his fingers over the elegantly written pages. “But I had no idea he had actually done so.”
“Your Jean was a keen observer … devoted to Grandaise and you.” She paused here and met his gaze. “You know, he includes in these writings what he believed caused the feud to start almost a hundred years ago.”
“He did? What was it?”
“Treasure.”
“What?”
“In the forest.”
“Treasure. In the forest,” he said dryly. “If he believed that, don’t you think he would have mentioned this to someone—like me—when he was alive?”
She pulled the book onto her lap, turned pages, then slid it back to him.
He read the words where her finger tapped the page. “Treasure.” His jaw went slack. “He calls it the ‘Treasure of Grandaise.’ Why didn’t Jean ever talk to me about it? Have you read it all? Did he reveal what this treasure is?”
“I haven’t read every entry completely, but he says that the lords of Grandaise and Verdun disagreed over how to claim it. Hard feelings developed and came to blows.”
“Exactly where is this ‘treasure’ located?”
“He just referred to it as ‘the riches in the south forest.’ ”
“That’s the disputed part of the forest—the part both sides are forced to avoid. Our grandfathers fought each other and died there.”
“And then Jean went on to record his finest and most beloved recipes, many of which contained truffles. I thought that rather odd at first, but then began to understand from some of his comments on the recipes. He mentions you numerous times.” She turned several pages and pointed to his name and the comments Jean had written about him. “That’s how I knew which recipes would be your favorites.”
He stared at the script until it began to blur.
“He saved me. Jean. From my earliest days, I was deviled by a great sensitivity to the smells around me. I remember feeling like I was breathing poison sometimes and scratching and clawing to get free of it. My head throbbed at times and at other times I felt like I was suffocating. Frightened by what happened to me, I would lash out in pain and anger. I hated being out of control like that—sometimes I tried not to breathe at all.
“I finally found a remedy a bit better than refusing to breathe. I abandoned all smells and began to wear a band on my nose. I was still quite young when my father died. Jean set out to help me learn to control my reactions. He thought that if I could learn to focus on one smell at a time and ignore all else, I might be able to live more normally. To begin my training, he chose a smell that was rare and pungent and—oddly—didn’t make me ill in large doses.”
“Truffles,” she supplied. He nodded.
“Gradually I learned to control how much scent I perceived and with it, the emotions that seized me when smells became too much. For a time I lived almost normally. Then Jean died and his wretched assistant disappeared and my kitchen went to ruin. Then I was called to take my garrison to Spain to fight. The battlefield smells overcame me and I lost control again.” He gave her a pained smile. “There is a reason they call me ‘the Beast.’ ”
She smiled through the haze of moisture in her eyes.
“You know, I can actually smell your tears,” he said, running his thumb across her cheek. “I hope you’re not regretting what we’ve just done.”
“Never,” she said.
“There may be drastic consequences.”
“There would have been drastic consequences if we hadn’t.” She gave a teary laugh. “And we would have totally missed this …”
And she kissed him until his toes curled.
The sun was high overhead before the Lord and Lady of Grandaise exited their chamber together, heading for the hall to face whatever the fleet chain of estate gossip and their conspicuous absence from duty that morning had wrought. They stopped halfway down to the first landing where Sister Regine stood with a pretty, young, dark-haired maiden wearing fine garments and a worried look.
“Well?” the girl said looking at Julia.
“Oh, well … I’m afraid we didn’t get around to it yet,” Julia said with a wince, then she looked up at Griffin. “How much do you love me again?”
He gave her a startled look.
“We have a visitor, milord,” she said as if every word had a cost. “And she has a most urgent request. May I present Lady Sophie Marie … of Verdun.”
Griffin must have felt as if he had been poleaxed. He certainly looked like it. “Lady Sophie of Verdun?” He looked from Julia to the girl with a shock-delayed reaction rising. “The one you said you met when you were captive?”
“The very one,” Sophie answered for her, giving him a deep curtsy. “And I’ve come to beg your aid, milord. I am in desperate need of sanctuary.”
It took a moment for that to register. Verdun’s daughter … the one he was once commanded to wed, now asking him for … He clapped his hands over his face.
“Dear God!”
A cup of wine, some shouting, and a fair number of heartfelt apologies later, Griffin had redonned his nose band and sat in his empty hall—cleared of everyone but the Baron Crossan and Axel and Greeve—glowering at Julia and her cohort in diplomatic disaster.
“When I sent to her, I never expected she would bring the truffles and book herself,” Julia said. “But, milord, you must see that she is desperate. To have to wed a man who squished his first wife like a bug in their marital bed.”
“My father is a monster,” Sophie declared, producing another wave of perfect tears. “He’s scheming and cruel and has no natural affection for his own child. To him, I am no different than a turnip field … to be plowed and planted … so he can reap a rich crop. I have no say in my future at all.”
“Well, who does?” Griffin roared, lurching forward in his great chair. “Noblewomen have obligations and duty to perform—even duty to wretched scheming fathers.” He shook a finger at her. “It’s your role, your fate, your cross to bear. Your earthly burden is to take that fate and do the b
est you can with it—not go gallivanting around the country begging people to protect you from it.”
Julia could hardly believe those words were coming from him. It could only be the dry bones of some long-decayed ancestor speaking through him.
“And yet only a few hours ago, milord,” she spoke up, aiming a warm yet challenging look on him, “we were taking our future into our own hands.”
He looked at her with fire in his eyes and for a moment she wondered if she had just made the biggest mistake of her life. Whatever possessed her to test their vows, their determination, and the fragile new bond they had forged in private, so openly?
Still, the words had been uttered. She straightened her back and held her head high, showing him that she was unafraid to face the ramifications of what they had done together and praying he would not shrink from them, either. His gaze sought hers and she saw the moment he affirmed that life-giving connection between them and decided to conform his life to the new state of his heart.
“So we did.” He sat back and after a few moments, looked to the baron for comment. Crossan shrugged and wagged his head.
“A bad business, Grandaise. She gets the freedom. You get the blame.”
The baron’s succinct assessment struck a chord in Griffin, he looked back to Sophie and cocked his head, studying her. “You ask for sanctuary, milady. But in any alliance, benefit must accrue to both sides. If I offer you protection and support, what can you offer me by way of compensation or advantage?”
Just as Sophie turned a frantic look on Julia, she was visibly struck by an idea. She straightened and her lively dark eyes darted back and forth.
“Only the satisfaction that comes from knowing that you’re depriving my father of a most lucrative alliance,” she said. “And that he’ll be furious about it.”
There was a heartbeat of stunned silence before Crossan’s mouth fell open and Griffin choked on a laugh.
“Heaven deliver us from such daughters!” Crossan crossed himself.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Griffin said to the baron while looking at his new wife with unabashed adoration. “It may be that Heaven is the very agency responsible for them. My guess is that they’re sent here to test us, and—if we pass—to give us a little taste of paradise.”
They moved possessions and revised sleeping arrangements that afternoon. Julia’s things were moved into the lord’s quarters, Sophie was given a chamber of her own just down the way from the master’s chambers, and Regine was given the head cook’s quarters and for the first time in her life, had a chamber all to herself.
The house and outbuildings and the village beyond began to buzz with talk about the lady guest that had appeared in Grandaise’s hall. There was some speculation that she might be from the convent that supplied the new Lady of Grandaise. But she didn’t wear a nun’s habit and was reportedly quite a beauty. Folk were so preoccupied by the news that they didn’t notice a ragged fellow with incongruously fine boots lurking about the walls and various gates.
Over the day, Martin de Gies had made a thorough study of Grandaise’s walls and gates and found them solid and well-guarded. So much for hopes of an easy entry and a quick retrieval of his wayward lady.
Evening was coming on again, and by now both her absence and his own had been marked and cast in the worst possible light. It wouldn’t take long for the count to extract from some of the younger knights the fact that Sophie had courted ruination among them. And it wouldn’t take him long to deduce that if she had tried to seduce the others, she had tried it with his First Knight as well.
That meant that even if he got Sophie safely back to Verdun, he would be walking into a maelstrom of fatherly fury and retribution, and Sophie would be imprisoned and sent away to wed a gluttonous German pork pie. He would never see her again. Salty little Sophie with her delicious brown eyes and throaty, musical laugh … her curvy little body and pouting mouth. His chest ached as if he had just been emptied of everything that made living possible.
Duty. Honor. Loyalty. They made hard masters.
He spotted a caravan of carts carrying wood and hay into the narrower rear gate and quickly fell in beside the last cart, bending his head and rounding his shoulders, imitating the trudging walk of the men accompanying the goods. He tucked the hilt of his blade under his arm, pinned his scabbard to his side, and held his breath as he passed by the sentries. A coughing fit from the man leading his cart diverted the guards’ attention enough for him to pass through undetected.
Once inside the walls and away from the gate, he darted to the cover of a wooden shed near the stables and surveyed the place. His heart sank. He was between the stables and the garrison … a location that placed him square in the path of the frequent traffic between the two. He backed away from the corner and crept in a broad arc back toward the wall and then past sheds and animal pens and smithy and barns.
Ordinarily he would have been alert to everything, assessing the buildings, the locations of forge and armory and wells, and the supplies of livestock in the pens as military assets or liabilities. But just now, he was so busy planning what he would say to Sophie to persuade her to return home with him, in fact, that he didn’t see the pig …
The huge pink creature staggered only slightly as he banged into it, and he narrowly avoided pitching over its back into the pile of peelings and kitchen offal it was devouring. The disaccommodated beast looked up at him with a snort of indignation and a ragged, unwashed fellow grabbed him by the shoulder. “Watch where you are going! You have disturbed Fleur’s—”
“Keep your cursed pig out of the way,” Martin snapped, trying to thrust the smelly wretch aside. The man grabbed Martin’s cloak in both fists.
“How dare you speak of Demoiselle Fleur so?”
“Take your hands off me.”
“Not until you give my Fleur an apology.”
Martin shoved against the outraged pig keeper’s grip, but the fellow was not as insubstantial as he seemed. A tussle ensued and in the scuffle, the sword Martin was taking pains to conceal hit the ground.
A trio of soldiers had paused on the way back to their barracks to watch the confrontation, mildly amused by the pig man’s indignation … until that sword fell. Peasants and workers didn’t carry swords, much less ones wrapped in finely wrought scabbards. And no man carried such a sword and wore such boots beneath such a cloak unless …
Martin saw them emptying their hands and rushing him, and he tried to bolt. They were on him in a heartbeat, ripping off his cloak, discovering his padded leather jerkin with its clear imprint of mail …
“Milord!” One of the squires came running into the hall just after supper. “Milord, come quick! We’ve caught a spy!”
Griffin was on his feet in a flash, striding for the door. Crossan, Axel, Greeve, and several of the other knights grabbed their swords and rushed out after him. In front of the barracks they found a crowd of men gathered around a pair of guardsmen holding a battered but struggling figure. Griffin paused to look him over before approaching. The man had a bruised jaw and a cut above one eye; he had obviously put up a fight.
“I am no spy,” the prisoner declared.
“Who are you and what are you doing here, within my walls?” he demanded, striding closer, taking in the man’s battle-worthy frame and examining the sword one of his men handed him. Something about the man seemed familiar. “You’re a knight, by the looks of you and your weapon. Who is your lord?” He stalked close enough to stare directly into the man’s eyes and roar: “Answer me!”
The knight ceased struggling and stood straight in his captors’ grip.
“I am Martin de Gies, First Knight of Bardot of Verdun and protector of Lady Sophie of Verdun.” He glanced up at the hall and braced himself to announce. “And I’ve come to take her home.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“You’ve come to take her home?” Griffin choked back an involuntary laugh at his claiming of the thankless role of “protector” for a pighead
ed young lady who clearly had her own ideas about how she should be protected and by whom. “I expected that sooner or later Verdun would find out where she was and would move to get her back”—by now, a messenger was probably on the way to Paris with news of Sophie’s “abduction,” and from court, it was sure to look like a blatant case of an-eye-for-an-eye—“but he sends one lone knight? Sneaking into my walls disguised as a beggar?”
He scowled, studying the tension in the knight’s face and recalling the name. “Martin de Gies. You’re the one … from Paris … the fair.”
“I know you have Lady Sophie within your walls … I followed her here. I ask that you turn her over to me immediately so that I may escort her home.”
“Do you hear that, Crossan,” Griffin said, turning to glance at the baron. “He asks that she be returned.”
“There’s a story here,” the baron observed. “No knight would undertake such a mission single-handed … not when he has an entire garrison at his disposal.”
“You’ve come here—alone—to demand Lady Sophie return with you to Verdun?” Griffin turned back to his captive. “You must be mad.”
“Far from it, Lord Griffin.” Martin of Gies stood his ground and raised his chin. “I may be your best hope for getting out of this without violence and bloodshed.”
“How so?” Griffin demanded, scrutinizing the handsome knight with grudging admiration. He had not an arrow in his quiver, but he still tried to negotiate.
“If you are indeed the man Julia of Childress said you are … you will first seek to settle a dispute without fighting and bloodshed. And that is what I offer you. You see, I know that you did not abduct Lady Sophie, that she came here on her own. And I know that it may be a misguided bit of friendship on Julia’s—”
“Lady Julia!” Griffin corrected.
“Lady Julia’s part that she has taken Lady Sophie in. But surely you must see, Lord Griffin, that if she is not returned—and soon—that a peaceable solution will no longer be possible.”