by Betina Krahn
With Griffin somewhat recovered, Julia left his side to visit the sickroom where Sophie tended her husband and her father together … an arrangement dictated by the Duke of Avalon, who seemed to think that it might help the lord and the knight get to know each other better. What they learned from that exploration wasn’t hard to imagine:
“He snores like a bellowing bull all night long,” Martin whispered, pointing to the dark circles under his eyes as proof.
“He slurps his sops like a hog at a trough,” the count grumbled, making remarkably accurate imitation of a pig. “And the horny goat thinks I can’t see the way he grabs Sophie every time she comes near.”
“Bulls, hogs, and goats.” Sophie rolled her eyes. “You see what I have to deal with? I have a regular barnyard, here.”
On the brighter side, word of the mysterious cause of the feud also spread. Two aging lords had come to blows in the forest, the story went, and a wicked man had seized the opportunity their anger gave him to drive a wedge between two houses. It was a lesson to all on the way evil could enter even small conflicts and make them grow into ugly and destructive battles … even wars.
Then on the third night after the battle at Old Thibault’s Hall, Julia’s uneasiness concerning Griffin’s state of mind was confirmed. He came down to the hall for supper and was welcomed roundly by cheers and greetings that made him smile. Attuned as she was becoming to his moods and expressions, she could see that his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Then as they ate, the duke launched into the subject of his visit and the outcome of the battles fought and the odd twist of fate that had landed Griffin’s rival in a sickbed in Griffin’s hall. Julia’s heart climbed into her throat as the duke looked at the two of them.
“I have watched you, Grandaise. And you, Lady Julia. I have seen the good your union has brought to your people and to the possibilities for peace in this region.” The duke paused for a moment. “I believe that you not only behaved honorably, Lord Griffin, I believe you exercised admirable restraint in the face of great provocation. I would have you know … I will recommend to the king that your marriage—along with Lady Sophie’s and Sir Martin’s—be allowed to stand.”
Sophie, who was sitting farther down the table, listening with eyes as big as goose eggs, cried out “Bless you, Your Grace!” and launched herself at Sir Martin, who had risen as the duke spoke. He seized her around the waist and whirled her around and around, laughing, flushed with desire he hadn’t dared show until now.
Julia threw her arms around Griffin’s neck and kissed him right there in front of everyone. It was the surprise, she told herself, that kept him from kissing her back. Or the public nature of her impulsive gesture. But in her heart she worried that there was more to it.
When they retired to their chamber that night, her fears were confirmed.
“Come to bed, milord,” she said swaying toward him as he sat at his desk, looking over neglected ledgers and tallies. “You still need your rest.”
“I doubt it’s rest you have in mind, milady. And I’ve neglected these reports,” he declared with a lighter tone as if trying to mask his seriousness.
She slid an arm across his shoulder.
“Would it make a difference if I told you I’ve hidden the essence of an apple, a grape, and a plum for you to find?”
“Not tonight, Julia,” he said, stiffening, dropping his pretense of calm.
“I thought … we could celebrate the duke’s blessing.”
“It’s not over yet. The convent may still press its claims to you.”
Julia retreated a step. “The convent? Why are you worrying about that when the duke has just declared that honor is satisfied?”
“With the king,” he said shortly. “Not with the convent.”
“But the duke should know if anyone does, since he is the one to whom you’re responsible for that vow. If he says our marriage is right and good, who could possibly argue?”
Staring at his tightly controlled frame, she suddenly understood. The one who was arguing with that conclusion was him. Why? Why would he doubt the wisdom of their bond now and seek to put distance between them?
“Come to bed, milord. Whatever is bothering you will seem less dire if you share it with me … if we face it together.”
“Some things,” he said with a flash of heat in his otherwise chilled eyes, “cannot be shared. Ever. And you should thank God for it.”
He rose and strode furiously from the chamber, leaving her staring after him with hurt washing through her. After all they had been through together, he should know that she would share any burden, help with any problem he faced. What could be so terrible … ?
Stifling her perennial impulse to blame herself first in any situation, she forced herself to recall that the chilliness and distance had begun the day of the burning, the day they had fought Old Thibault’s mercenaries and learned the truth about Bertrand. Since then, he had hardly touched her. Then this latest battle … he had returned home without his nose band … She should have paid more heed to the whispers the kitchen and hall servants thought she couldn’t hear.
The Beast was back, at least in Griffin’s mind. The battle in Thibault’s hall had brought it all back to him, made him relive all of the horrors that caused him to want to cut himself off from all of his emotions and feelings.
He was protecting her, she realized. Or he believed he was.
She had thought that once the duke gave them his blessing, the questions and doubts would be over. She and Griffin would be truly married. Lovers and partners, as Sister Rosemary said.
But there was more to a marriage, she was learning, than just vows or “volition” or sharing bed and board, or even the pleasures of physical joining. The real marriage test was the one that occurred every day, as people lived their lives together. Always facing one more obstacle. One more difficulty to grow beyond. One last test.
Wiping away one traitorous tear, she vowed that this was one last “marriage test” that she did not intend to fail.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The next afternoon, Julia sat at dinner watching the pleasure her food brought to everyone dining in the hall. The duke, the baron, Axel and Greeve, Sir Martin and Sophie … they all enjoyed her Civet of Hare and the savory cheese and herb rissoles she had made especially for Griffin. She looked at his empty place, beside her, and felt a wave of despair threatening to engulf her.
Griffin had left early that morning with a handful of men and several masons and carpenters to lay plans for rebuilding the south hamlet, even though there was no great urgency to the rebuilding. The displaced folk were housed adequately, if not comfortably, in the village or within Grandaise’s walls and a number of them spoke of remaining in the main village instead of returning to the smaller hamlet.
It was dinner time and he was somewhere else. Her hopes for restoring his heart and wooing him back to her arms with food didn’t stand a chance if he was never there to eat what she prepared. She would have to take more direct and drastic action, she realized, and pray that Grand Jean and Sister Boniface and the blessed Saint Martha, the busy patron saint of cooks, would lend whatever support they could from Heaven.
After thinking about it for a while, she went straight to Sophie.
“Where did he get the truffles?” Sophie repeated Julia’s question as they stood together in the hall. “I have no earthly idea.”
“Well, I have to find out,” Julia said quietly. “I have to have some more of them. Could you send a message to Francois and ask where he got them?”
“He is probably still furious with me for taking that first batch,” Sophie said with a hint of righteous indignation. “I think Francois holds grudges.”
“Please, Sophie, send to him. I’m desperate. I must have some truffles.”
“What for?”
“Never mind what for. Will you send to him or not?”
A reassuringly canny look appeared on Sophie’s face.
�
��How about if I have my father send for them instead?”
When the messenger returned from Verdun empty-handed, Julia was in the kitchen with Jean’s great black book, selecting ingredients and making decisions on recipes. The whirlwind of activity she had generated among the folk of the kitchen came to a complete stop at the sight of the messenger’s empty hands and rueful expression.
“He said he don’t have none, milady,” the messenger declared. “Not a truffle to be had in all of Verdun.”
“What’s a ‘truffle’ ?” she heard one of the friskier potboys, Sully, ask a kitchen girl as he hefted a pail of scraps and peelings to carry outside.
“It’s like a mushroom.”
“Oh. Then why don’t she just ask Fleur?” he responded glibly. “She’s always findin’ mushrooms. She can find anything.”
Mushrooms … forest … truffles … Julia wiped her hands and rushed outside to find Demoiselle Fleur digging enthusiastically into her duty.
“Jacques, have you ever heard of truffles?” she asked, clasping her hands anxiously and looking from keeper to beast.
The laconic pig keeper frowned and thought for a moment. “You mean the leetle smelly bits … that my Fleur digs up now and again?”
“She digs them up?” She could hardly believe her ears.
“Sometimes. She is quite fond of them. But, it is such a way to go to get them these days. It grieves her … they are found no longer in the north forest.”
“I have to have some of them,” she said anxiously. “Do you think Fleur could find me some?”
“I suppose. Except, it is a long way to the south forest.” He scowled. “And ma petite Fleur, she is not much for walking these days …”
That was how Julia came to be rattling along in a cart down the narrow forest path with Jacques, Fleur, and the enterprising potboy, Sully. They stopped here and there along the way to let Fleur trudge down the ramp of boards they’d brought along and sniff around at the base of some trees. But, inevitably, she abandoned the quest and tromped back to the cart, where she waited like long-suffering royalty for her subjects to help her into the cart.
After the fourth such stop, Julia waited until they had stowed the ramp boards and Jacques had climbed up on the driver’s seat to look the porcine matriarch in the eye.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she muttered. “Look, you find me some truffles and I’ll see you get to ride in the cart every blessed day.”
Whether it was the offer Julia made or simply a matter of finding a better scent, at the next stop Fleur took off through the trees with significantly more enthusiasm. They fought their way through the old trees and woody undergrowth after her, watching the great pig pause here and there to sniff at things they couldn’t begin to guess. Julia was getting hot and irritable and young Sully had taken to wearing the truffle basket on his head when they came to a small clearing, around which a number of huge oaks stood. Fleur was showing some promising interest in the bare patches around some of the roots, digging daintily at the soil, when out of nowhere a pair of hounds came rushing out of the trees and headed straight for her, barking in alarmed possession. Jacques and Sully tried to intervene, grabbing sticks and bashing at the frantic animals.
Two men appeared on the far side of the clearing, with another dog that raced to join its comrades in harrying Fleur. Jacques was furious—alternately cursing the hounds and shouting at their master to call them off. The first man finally gave a short piercing whistle and the hounds stopped barking and retreated toward him. Julia was furious.
“What do you think you’re doing,” she yelled, “letting your dogs run wild like that? They were attacking our pig!”
“And what the devil are you doing out here with that monstrous pink beast?” An oddly familiar voice demanded. As he approached, Julia recognized Francois, Verdun’s larcenous head cook … carrying a basket just like hers.
“We’re looking for truffles,” she declared, folding her arms and looking at his basket. “So this is where you dig your truffles.”
“Me? Dig truffles? Hardly,” Francois said haughtily. “I always bought my truffles from old Lord Thibault. He had quite a tidy little trade in them. And now that he’s gone, I have to get my own … like in the old days.”
“Old Thibault harvested the truffles?” She was struggling to fit that piece into the puzzle of the past when Francois gave Fleur a dismissive gesture.
“You’ll never take home any truffles if you’re using one of those things.”
“She is no ‘thing.’ ” Jacques shook his fist. “She is a finder of lost things.”
“She’s a pig,” Francois insisted pugnaciously. “If and when she does find a truffle, she’ll eat it herself and you won’t take a single one home. If you really want to hunt truffles, get some dogs.”
“Dogs?” Jacques spat. “They tear up the ground. That is why there are no truffles left in the north. These stupid dogs … they have killed them … dug them all up and killed them!”
Julia watched with dismay as the hound master weighed in to defend his dogs. Just then, Fleur, who had ambled off, began to snort and dig in earnest at the base of a tree, attracting the attention of the hounds, who came racing over to begin digging wildly and destructively at the earth.
“Make them stop!” Julia demanded of the hound master, who looked to Francois. Francois merely folded his portly arms and gave her a fierce look.
“You stole my book,” he snapped.
“It’s not your book—you stole it from Grandaise,” she snapped back, growing frantic that the truffles would be destroyed. “Call off your dogs. I need those truffles!”
He glared spitefully at her, bent on exacting a bit of revenge.
Well, two could play at that game. She folded her arms, mirroring him.
“Call them off or I’ll tell your employer you’re a thief and a fraud and I’ll show him Grandaise’s kitchen as proof.” She saw her words had an impact and continued, “Even now Lord Bardot lies recovering from his wounds in Grandaise’s hall. On the other hand, if you help me dig a basket of truffles, I can almost assure you that the count will never see our curiously ‘similar’ kitchens.”
Francois lost his smug expression and, after assessing her steely look, motioned to the master of the hounds to recall his beasts.
It occurred to Julia as they jostled along toward home in the cart, later, that she and Francois had been arguing … in the forest … just like the original counts of Grandaise and Verdun. Only this time, they were able to settle the argument peaceably. A little agreement between cooks. A peaceable exchange of benefit.
She lifted the linen on the basket of truffles and selected one of the fragrant dark tubers, turning it over in the dappled sunlight streaming down on the forest path. She closed her eyes and smelled, trying to imagine what more Griffin could smell when he experienced them. Dark, moist earth … the very soul of the soil … with hints of garlic, shallots, and mushrooms … all subtly bound together … a culinary—
Treasure.
She began to laugh.
Griffin spent a good part of the next morning with the duke and a much improved Comte de Verdun, discussing the fate of the south forest and the holdings of Old Thibault de Roland. The count, having recovered enough to reclaim his usual canny nature, maneuvered for the lands to be granted to Sir Martin, who would have to be ennobled so that his designation as the count’s male heir could proceed. Griffin was of the opinion that the lands should be surveyed and divided equally … or held in joint trust for succeeding generations. The duke, ever the diplomat, agreed to take both under consideration.
After helping to resettle some of the cottagers in tents near the hamlet that burned, and determining what would be needed to rebuild their homes, Griffin was tired and a bit irritable and found himself longing to return to his chambers and strip off his clothes and sink into a warm, comforting bath. Except that Julia would be there in a heartbeat … with her warm eyes and mischievous sm
ile and tantalizing food …
He felt bound and tightly contained inside, unable to reach out past the shell that had formed around him in the bloodbath of his battle at Thibault’s hall. He had lost what she most wanted him to give her and he didn’t know how to even talk about it, much less get it back. He climbed the winding stairs and paused outside the door, preparing himself to see her.
What he saw when he opened the door was something altogether different. His bed was missing. A bed that measured seven feet by seven feet and had posts six inches thick. He stalked over and stared in disbelief at the blanched square on the darkened wooden floor that marked where the bed had stood.
“What the hell?” He ducked back out the door and stood on the first landing bellowing for his squire. The lad didn’t appear. He quieted to listen over the pounding of his heart and heard—nothing. Silence. Damned suspicious silence.
She was up to something. He glanced back at that shocking void where the bed of his ancestors had stood and told himself that it was a bad sign. She was declaring war on the distance he’d put between them and he didn’t know whether to try to meet her head on or to run like hell.
Where the devil could she have taken a bed that big?
A noise on the stairs above him made him look up, and there she stood, dressed in the white silk gown she was married in and wearing her burnished hair loose around her shoulders. She seemed to glow in the dim torchlight of the stair passage and he groaned, wishing he could find a way to look at her without looking at her.
“What have you done with my bed?” He pointed into the chamber.
“Well, I thought it was time for a bit of a change and so I had it moved.”
“Where?”
“Where do you think?” She glanced up the stairs and he recoiled a step.
“Ohhh no. You call your porters and hall servants—whoever helped you move it up there—and tell them to bring it back downstairs where it belongs.”