The Marriage Test (2 page)

The Feast of Pentecost had come and gone, and the full spring sun had driven away the rains and warmed the land into full, fertile glory. Everywhere life was stirring: Sown fields were sprouting, cows were freshening, town burghers were preparing for hot fairs, and travelers were abroad on the roads and camping in the edges of woods … like the woods overlooking the Convent of the Brides of Virtue …

“We’re in luck, Your Lordship!” Sir Axel came puffing up the hill and charged into the undergrowth that hid his liege lord, his friend Sir Greeve, and a dozen well-supplied men at arms. Spotting his lord peering through the branches at the stone-walled convent nestled in the valley below, he braced against a bush to steady himself. “It’s a feast day.”

“Feast day?” Griffin, Count of Grandaise, turned to his rotund, thickly cloaked spy with narrowed eyes. “Today belongs to no saint.”

“Not a saint’s feast, seigneur. The Duke of Avalon visits to thank the abbess and convent for something or other. He’s brought meat, and there’s to be a special dinner for the duke and
a distribution of alms.”

Griffin of Grandaise turned that over in his mind.

“Alms? They’re feeding the poor?”

“Yes, indeed. That’s why those folk are clustered around the rear gate.”

“How are we fortunate that those poor wretches get to eat alms bread?”

“Not just alms bread, milord.” Axel parted the branches nearby and pointed to the knot of people milling around the rear gate. “They’re waiting for the duke’s leavings to be distributed. The sisters will give out all that’s left.”

“It’s pure providence, milord,” Sir Greeve declared, peering past Axel’s shoulder toward the convent. “The duke will occupy the abbess … there will be men about the convent … and with the confusion of the poor milling about …”

“It would be the perfect opportunity to slip inside and have a look at this cook who’s woven a spell on the pair of you,” Griffin concluded, scowling.

Five weeks had passed since two of his knights stumbled fainting from hunger into this enclave of church-pledged females and came out intoxicated with gustatory pleasure. The pair rushed home to Grandaise to tell him about their find and had talked of little else since. Worse … every time they described that pie, the crust was a bit more golden and delectable and the meat a bit more tender and the spices a bit more subtle or bold or intriguing …

And every time he heard them wax eloquent about the experience he wanted to put his fist through something.

Food, his men knew full well, was a sore subject with the Count of Grandaise. He never got enough. And what he did get never satisfied him. He could barely stomach half of what his beleaguered kitchens produced, and rather than force himself to consume common fare—which was as unpalatable to him as spoiled or soured food was to others—he often went hungry. And when he went hungry, his mood darkened and he earned the sobriquet that he had inherited along with his title from his grandfather:
the Beast of Grandaise.

It was a curse of his lineage, passed down from his grandfather, who raised him after his father died young in battle: a heightened sensitivity of smell that made ordinary food seem the equivalent of kitchen slops. He could distinguish a dash of pepper in a whole vat of stew … a single stalk of celery in an entire batch of stuffing … or a taint of vinegar in a barrel days before wine began to go “off.” The scent of a dusting of mold, a hint of souring, or even the fermenting spoilage of a single apple in a barrel could ruin his appetite and linger sickeningly in his head for the better part of a day.

“Go, milord, and you’ll have food fit for Heaven itself,” Greeve urged.

“Divine,” Axel added anxiously. “The abbess herself thinks so.”

“That’s why she guards the cook like a hawk.” Greeve’s head bobbed. “Wouldn’t even let us set eyes on her. We had to spread a bit of coin about the village to learn she existed at all.”

Neither of the devoted knights broached the question uppermost in their minds: What would happen if Lord Griffin decided the cook was all Axel and Greeve had said and insisted on having her? Trading anxious glances, they forced themselves to set such worries aside. It was enough that they’d managed to lighten his grim mood and turn his thoughts from the
impossible
—escaping the marriage the king had just commanded he make—to the merely
difficult
—wrenching a fine cook from a canny abbess’s hands.

They and the dozen other men who had accompanied the Count of Grandaise to court and then farther north to this isolated enclave of females held their breaths as he turned and straightened to his full six-plus feet of height. They braced, expecting a blast, but he merely looked them over and demanded:

“Which of you has the worst-looking cloak?”

The ragged folk gathered at the rear gate of the convent jealously guarded their places in the line waiting for the distribution of alms. Nobody fed the poor like the Convent of the Brides of Virtue. There was no keeping back of the choicer morsels and reusing them for stew or pottage or broth and sops. The bread given out was not coarse “alms bread,” but cuttings from the same soft, white flour loaves the sisters gave their guests. Sometimes the sisters set up tables in the rear yard and invited the poor and hungry to sit, and even mended their ragged garments for them as they ate. It was charity at its finest. And the poor and wretched, some of whom had been waiting since sunrise for a taste of a rare meat-day alms, were both hungry and contentious.

Thus, when a tall man in a ragged cloak appeared among them and strode straight toward the gate, they were incensed and demanded he wait at the back of the crowd. A few of the more intrepid souls grabbed his cloak as they insisted he wait his turn at the back. Some he shook off physically; others he pierced with a glare so fierce that they released him and skittered back to the safety of their fellows. By the time he reached the gate, opposition to his assumption had dwindled to shocked murmurs and shaken fists.

Griffin, Comte de Grandaise, walked boldly through the thick wooden gate, which, as it happened, stood ajar. But once inside he faded back against the stone wall and slid along it to a notch that offered at least partial concealment. From there he was able to survey the yard and orient himself.

Nearby, a gaggle of young girls and habit-clad sisters were struggling to settle planks across wooden braces to form makeshift tables. A pair of old men shuffled back and forth, carrying well-used benches out of what appeared to be a chapter dining hall. Periodically, some of the sisters would be called urgently back inside … leaving the young girls to chatter excitedly about their visitors and about the tasks they’d been assigned in the upcoming distribution.

The working parts of the convent were arrayed in a row along the outer wall, ringing the rear yard; the well, the cow byre, the stables, the shed, and the dovecote and chicken roost. Nearby was a stake-and-twine fence set atop a low wall of chiseled stone blocks. He edged closer and peered over it at well-tended rows of kitchen herbs. There was a surprising range of specimens: chervil, dill, lemongrass, mint, chives, onions, sage, leeks, rosemary, parsley, thyme, basil, summer savory … all grouped according to tastes … pungents, tarts, and savories. It was heartening.
Someone
here had a sense of culinary order.

He made his way around the herb garden wall. Pausing again behind a stack of old birch baskets and poultry ricks, he spotted the kitchens, identifiable by the plumes of smoke drifting out of sturdy-looking stone stacks that reached well past the roof. He watched the sisters and maids coming and going until an elderly sister came out to call everyone inside.

Seizing the opportunity, Griffin darted stealthily across the yard and inserted himself between the edge of the open kitchen wall and a dog cart that turned out to be filled with baskets of green tops, scrapings, and kitchen offal.

The Count of Grandaise reduced to hiding among the kitchen refuse to catch a glimpse of a cook.
He groaned.
Grandfather must be turning over in his grave.

Desperate for a better vantage point, he stuck his head around the corner of the kitchen opening and spotted a space between the wall and stacks of grain bags and barrels. Using the cover of the confusion of kitchen workers bustling thither and yon, he darted around the open wall to the safety of that new niche.

That was when he saw them.

Pies. A whole sea of them. Golden, perfect crusts mounded and laid out side by side … like undulating waves that stretched for yards atop cooling tables near the open wall. He recalled Axel’s and Greeve’s descriptions and against every disappointment-jaded impulse he possessed, his mouth began to water.

On the far side of the kitchen, in one of the four great hearths, fat pork shanks and legs of lamb were roasting over spits, flames flaring as grease dripped onto the coals. Nearby, pewter platters were laid out on tables, their handles tied with clean linen. Beside each was a boat and ladle ready to receive and dispense sauce. One of the old sisters was stropping long knives, preparing for the carving.

Fat tureens of pottage sat steaming on tables near the door, accompanied by baskets of beautiful golden bread. Farther still were platters piled with what looked like packets of fried dough—pasties of some sort.

His mouth was gushing water now. He had to have one of those pies … had to have a taste. Just as he slipped from his hiding place to the edge of the cooling table, a horde of chattering females came rushing back into the kitchen and swooped down on the pottage and bread. Orders and instructions flew from several quarters.

“You and you go before with the bread … you and you come behind with the bowls.”

“Sister Archie brought a message and the abbess jumped up and rushed from the dining hall,” he heard someone say with bewilderment.

“What do we do?” came another female voice.

“Begin serving the pottage,” came a definitive response. “You … two by two … one holds while the other serves. And use your napkins!”

He was tempted to try to catch sight of whoever was issuing orders, but decided to focus instead on sampling one of the pies. Sticking his nose up over the edge of the cooling table, he seized the closest one, tucked it under his arm, and headed back to his hiding place.

Sitting on the floor amid barrels and grain bags, he drew out his eating knife and realized his hand was trembling as it poised above the pie. He cut a thick wedge, pried it out, and gave it a looking over … prolonging both the anticipation and the hope. Then he opened his mouth and …

Ahhhh.

The texture. The spicing. The delicate crust and tenderness of the meat.

By the blessed Saints, it was …
he chewed, swallowed, and took a second bite before allowing himself to think it
… marvelous!

Only long years of ruthlessly practiced self-restraint prevented him from burying his face in that pie tin and wolfing down the contents.

It could be, he told himself desperately, that the cook simply had a way with crusts or got lucky with the combination of fillings. One dish was not enough on which to judge an entire kitchen. Or a cook. He licked his lips, savoring the lingering taste of spices, and stared ruefully at the pie. He needed more.

As soon as the tide of servers retreated back into the dining room and only a pair of elderly sisters and some kitchen boys remained to continue carving the meats and applying the sauces, he left his hiding place again and crept around the work tables. He watched from below and as the kitchen boys swung another spit from the fire and the old sisters turned away to supervise, he stuck his arm up and snatched a small leg of lamb … that burned his hands!

He fell back against the floor and dropped the meat on his chest to keep it from meeting the same fate. On the way back to his hiding place, he grabbed a napkin to save his hands, a loaf of bread, and one of the small pewter boats filled with what appeared to be a pink sauce. Emboldened by his success, he ventured still farther … determined to collect one of those pasties and to empty part of a tray of stuffed dates, almond tarts, sugared walnuts, small round cheeses, and what appeared to be spice-dusted crisps.

Then he spotted what appeared to be a pair of small animals—hedgehogs—sitting on a tray of greenery, apart from the others.

Hedgehogs? She cooked and presented
hedgehogs
to a duke? Opening the doublet he wore over his tunic, he tucked the sweetmeats inside and crept over to investigate. On closer inspection, the hedgehog quills were too thick and not nearly as sharp as they should be and the eyes seemed to be all crinkled and the nose bulged oddly. Edging still closer, he realized they weren’t quills at all, but almonds—fried almonds! It was a hedgehog conceit, made out of edibles, intended for presentation to the duke!

Not an elegant peacock or swan or pheasant, but a
hedgehog.
It could be seen as whimsy. Or disrespect. He scowled. This cook had either some skill or some nerve.

The sound of voices rumbling back toward the kitchen warned he was about to be inundated with cooks and servers once again. Frantic to taste this ambitious creation, he yanked out his knife and sliced off one of the hedgehogs’ hindquarters.

Crowded back into his hiding place, he spread out the napkin he’d snagged and deposited the lamb and sauce boat on it, then began to pull the rest of his booty from his doublet. Then with a half-uttered prayer, he sank his teeth into the lamb shank and closed his eyes. Grease dripped down his chin, but he scarcely felt it. He was too focused on the flavor sliding down his tongue and then rising up an aromatic back door into his brain.