cook?” Griffin ground out, addressing the knight who had been smiling at Julia of Childress. But in truth, he already knew. The knight wore the colors of the one house in all of France that roused in him true loathing … the house and lineage that had brought his family nothing but loss and grief.
“Martin de Gies, of the House of Verdun,” the young knight declared evenly, his gaze lowering with contempt to the shield of blue and green on the tabard Griffin wore. “And you can only be the Bea—the Comte de Grandaise.” He took a step back, watching Griffin carefully, his arms tensed at his sides and the hilt of his sword suddenly visible as his leg nudged it forward. They were small movements that spoke of readiness to fight and of training that would make that fight a pitched battle. Then he seemed to realize what Griffin had said.
“What do you mean interfering with your ‘cook’ ?” De Gies glanced at Julia. “Do you mean to say this is your
cook?”
“She is.”
“I had no way of knowing.” He slid his gaze back to Griffin, assessing him with the same eye for threat Griffin employed. “I do not dally with turnspits or scullions.”
Griffin saw Julia’s eyes widen at the knight’s words as if she’d been struck, and he took an involuntary step closer to the wretch. Suddenly Greeve was at his back and two knights also bearing Verdun’s colors were shoving their way to the front of the crowd. Griffin’s hand itched to close around the hilt of his blade, but he glanced from de Gies to Julia, to the merchant and shocked crowd.
It was a bad place for a fight. Property and innocents would be at risk, and the odds were unknown. Greeve was with him and Axel was nearby, but he had no idea how many more of Verdun’s men might be lurking about, full of wine and spoiling for a fight. He could see de Gies making the same calculations.
“She is neither turnspit nor scullion,” he declared tautly. “You would be well advised to hold your tongue in the presence of your betters.” Abruptly he turned and seized Julia by the arm. “And you,” he growled, pushing her into Greeve’s hands. “Go straight back to camp and remain there until I return. Is that understood?” He slashed a glare at Greeve. “See she gets there.”
“Yea, milord,” Greeve said with determination as he threaded Julia’s arm through his and dragged her out into the lane.
“But my spices—” she protested.
“Go!” Griffin roared.
Both his fury and the danger of the situation finally registered with Julia. She ceased resisting Sir Greeve’s grip and allowed herself to be hauled away.
It was some moments before she could sort out her tumultuous thoughts enough to demand an explanation. Sir Greeve said nothing at first, bustling her along the lanes and skirting the open areas, until they reached the edge of the fair. Only when they had left the last stalls and tents well behind did he slow his pace enough to respond.
“Why was His Lordship so furious?” she demanded, dragging her heels to slow him down. “Who was that knight?”
“A vassal of the Count of Verdun,” Greeve said, spitting afterward as if the name fouled his mouth. Such a vehement action from the usually sanguine Sir Greeve shocked her.
“And who is this ‘Count of Verdun’ ? Why does the very sight of his men cause His Lordship to go apoplectic?”
Greeve chewed on that question for a moment. Then, finding no one near them on the rutted road, he sighed and finally halted to face her.
“Verdun is His Lordship’s closest neighbor. His sworn and bitter enemy. And soon to be … his father-in-law.”
Chapter Ten
With Julia out of the way, Griffin turned to his opponent with a soldier’s acceptance of what would happen next. If it came to a fight, he was ready. If his opponent was not ready to engage, then he would gladly withdraw. He had to find out which it would be and took a calculated risk.
“What the hell are you doing in Paris?” he
“Martin de Gies, of the House of Verdun,” the young knight declared evenly, his gaze lowering with contempt to the shield of blue and green on the tabard Griffin wore. “And you can only be the Bea—the Comte de Grandaise.” He took a step back, watching Griffin carefully, his arms tensed at his sides and the hilt of his sword suddenly visible as his leg nudged it forward. They were small movements that spoke of readiness to fight and of training that would make that fight a pitched battle. Then he seemed to realize what Griffin had said.
“What do you mean interfering with your ‘cook’ ?” De Gies glanced at Julia. “Do you mean to say this is your
cook?”
“She is.”
“I had no way of knowing.” He slid his gaze back to Griffin, assessing him with the same eye for threat Griffin employed. “I do not dally with turnspits or scullions.”
Griffin saw Julia’s eyes widen at the knight’s words as if she’d been struck, and he took an involuntary step closer to the wretch. Suddenly Greeve was at his back and two knights also bearing Verdun’s colors were shoving their way to the front of the crowd. Griffin’s hand itched to close around the hilt of his blade, but he glanced from de Gies to Julia, to the merchant and shocked crowd.
It was a bad place for a fight. Property and innocents would be at risk, and the odds were unknown. Greeve was with him and Axel was nearby, but he had no idea how many more of Verdun’s men might be lurking about, full of wine and spoiling for a fight. He could see de Gies making the same calculations.
“She is neither turnspit nor scullion,” he declared tautly. “You would be well advised to hold your tongue in the presence of your betters.” Abruptly he turned and seized Julia by the arm. “And you,” he growled, pushing her into Greeve’s hands. “Go straight back to camp and remain there until I return. Is that understood?” He slashed a glare at Greeve. “See she gets there.”
“Yea, milord,” Greeve said with determination as he threaded Julia’s arm through his and dragged her out into the lane.
“But my spices—” she protested.
“Go!” Griffin roared.
Both his fury and the danger of the situation finally registered with Julia. She ceased resisting Sir Greeve’s grip and allowed herself to be hauled away.
It was some moments before she could sort out her tumultuous thoughts enough to demand an explanation. Sir Greeve said nothing at first, bustling her along the lanes and skirting the open areas, until they reached the edge of the fair. Only when they had left the last stalls and tents well behind did he slow his pace enough to respond.
“Why was His Lordship so furious?” she demanded, dragging her heels to slow him down. “Who was that knight?”
“A vassal of the Count of Verdun,” Greeve said, spitting afterward as if the name fouled his mouth. Such a vehement action from the usually sanguine Sir Greeve shocked her.
“And who is this ‘Count of Verdun’ ? Why does the very sight of his men cause His Lordship to go apoplectic?”
Greeve chewed on that question for a moment. Then, finding no one near them on the rutted road, he sighed and finally halted to face her.
“Verdun is His Lordship’s closest neighbor. His sworn and bitter enemy. And soon to be … his father-in-law.”
Chapter Ten
With Julia out of the way, Griffin turned to his opponent with a soldier’s acceptance of what would happen next. If it came to a fight, he was ready. If his opponent was not ready to engage, then he would gladly withdraw. He had to find out which it would be and took a calculated risk.
“What the hell are you doing in Paris?” he
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