The Marriage Test (25 page)

She bumped into something and jerked back with a gasp. Her feet had, out of habit, carried her to the kitchen door, where a moveable pink wall named Fleur stood munching stolidly under the watchful gaze of her keeper.

“Welcome back, milady,” Jacques said, dragging his hat from his head and giving Fleur a nudge with the staff he carried. “Go on, Fleur—give ’er a nod.”

The pig looked up, and Julia could swear she bobbed her head before going back to her bucket of peels and slops. Jacques grinned, revealing a new gap in his teeth. Feeling an odd trickle of warmth, Julia smiled back and ventured a scratch of the pig’s bristly ears.

Just then, one of the potboys ambled out the kitchen door, saw her, and darted back inside to shout to the others: “She’s here! Laydee Jul-ya’s here!”

Heartbeats later she was being dragged inside the kitchen, where the folk bowed and curtsied awkwardly and some grabbed her hands to squeeze. The heat-polished faces and the familiar smells of flour and cabbage and onions and roasting fowl unleashed a torrent of emotions in her; it was all she could do to keep from dissolving into tears.

“Sister Reggie, she was a great help,” Old Mae declared, putting an arm around Regine, who blushed becomingly. “Kept us all hard at it.”

“Helped us remember what was in th’ dishes,” Old Albee added. “I’ll ’ave ye know, I been changin’ my grease regular.”

“I’m sure you all did very well.” Julia blinked away moisture as she patted his huge, scarred hand.

She looked around the substantial stone walls, glowing hearths, and soaring ceiling. This was her kitchen, her home, the source of her strength and her hope. Whatever she did to win his heart and her future, it would have to begin here.

“I’m proud of you for working so hard while I was gone.” She reached for an apron and began to roll up her sleeves. “Now, let’s get to work and make this a fine supper for His Lordship and his guests.”

They stared at her with mouths agape, until one of the older girls spoke up.

“But surely ye ain’t gonna still work in th’ kitchens … are ye, milady?”

“Of course I am. I’m still head cook. It’s what the Almighty and His Lordship have put me here to do, and it’s what I intend to do until they tell me otherwise.” She looked around with a growing sense of determination and her gaze fell on the wooden trough used for mixing dough.

“Look at those lumps. Oh, Cheval”—she looked to the brawny roaster with a stubborn smile—“we have work to do.”

All evening as Julia oversaw the cooking and planned the week’s menus and acquisitions, the kitchen folk watched her with mounting dismay. Even they knew a lord’s wedding day was supposed to be a time for feasting and merriment. But their lord hadn’t mentioned a keg, pudding, or wafer, much less a whole feast of celebration. Even stranger, their new lady spent the balance of her wedding day working like a common cook. Then she closed down the kitchen and sent the other cooks off to their rest before she went to hers.

It wasn’t right. They wagged their heads as they shuffled off to their beds.

Sister Regine agreed with them.

“So, you’re sleeping in
our
room tonight,” she said as Julia trudged along beside her, up the steps toward their shared chamber.

“And every night,” Julia responded. “For the foreseeable future.”

“I thought husbands and wives were supposed to share bed and board. If you’re married, why are you not sharing either one?”

“The problem seems to be that we were wedded at sword point. Since we didn’t have the proper ‘volition,’ His Lordship is of the opinion that ours isn’t a real marriage. And he’s determined that our ‘almost-marriage’ won’t change anything in his life or his household.”

Regine folded her arms in indignation.

“Well, if you ask me—
and I’m very well aware that you didn’t
—that man could use a few changes. In fact, he could use a wife.”

“How is that?” Julia opened the door of their chamber. “What could a wife give him that he doesn’t already have?”

“You honestly don’t know?” Regine looked surprised, then her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t pay attention in Sister Rosemary’s lectures on marriage.”

“I was always getting called out to the kitchens,” she said crossly. “Unlike some of the girls,
I
had a full slate of duties to attend.”

“Then listen carefully and I’ll try to summarize. Sister Rosemary’s ‘principle of necessity’ is that a wife is indispensable in three areas: a man’s heart, a man’s home, and a man’s future. Her ‘principle of pride’ is that there are three areas in which men believe they need no help or interference: their passions, their possessions, and their futures. It doesn’t take but half a wit to see that the ‘principles of necessity’ and the ‘principles of pride’ are bound to clash.”

“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.